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THE  CHILDREN 
OF  THE  ABBEY 


BY 

REGINA  MARIA  ROCHE 


THE  MERSHON  COMPANY 

RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


NEW  YORK 


1 1 1 r > . 


J < 


ir//r/i  ■*.  ■ 


/ //  ' 


^ ^ >1  .‘)i-i.«ii"  ""  ;.■ 


THE 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Yellow  sheafs  from  rich  Ceres  the  cottage  had  crowned. 

Green  rushes  were  strewed  on  the  floor  ; 

The  casements  sweet  woodbine  crept  wantonly  round. 

And  decked  the  sod  seats  at  the  door.— Cunningham. 

Hail,  sweet  asylum  of  my  infancy  ! Content  and  innocence 
reside  beneath  your  humble  roof,  and  charity  unboastful  of  the 
good  it  renders.  Hail,  ye  venerable  trees  ! my  happiest  hours 
of  childish  gayety  were  passed  beneath  your  shelter — then,  care- 
less as  the  birds  that  sung  upon  your  boughs,  I laughed  the  hours 
away,  nor  knew  of  evil. 

Here  surely  I shall  be  guarded  from  duplicity  ; and  if  not 
happy,  at  least  in  some  degree  tranquil.  Here  unmolested  may 
I wait,  till  the  rude  storm  of  sorrow  is  overblown,  and  my 
father’s  arms  are  again  expanded  to  receive  me. 

Such  were  the  words  of  Amanda,  as  the  chaise  (which  she  had 
hired  at  a neighboring  village  on  quitting  the  mail)  turned  down 
a little  verdant  lane  almost  darkened  by  old  trees,  whose  inter- 
woven branches  allowed  her  scarcely  a glimpse  of  her  nurse’s 
cottage  till  she  had  reached  the  door. 

A number  of  tender  recollections  rushing  upon  her  mind,  ren- 
dered her  almost  unable  to  alight ; but  the  nurse  and  her  husband^ 
who  had  been  impatiently  watching  for  the  arrival  of  their  fond- 
ling, assisted  her,  and  the  former,  obeying  the  dictates  of  nature 
and  affection,  half  stifled  her  with  caresses ; the  latter  respectfully 
kissed  her  hand,  and  dropped  a tear  of  unutterable  joy  upon  it. 
Lort,  he  said,  he  was  surprised,  to  be  sure,  at  the  alteration  a 
few  years  had  made  in  her  person — why,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  it 
was  only  the  other  day  since  he  had  carried  her  about  in  his  arms, 
quite  a little  fairy.  Then  he  begged  to  know  how  his  tear  old 
captain  was,  and  Mr.  Oscar — and  whether  the  latter  was  not 
grown  a very  fine  youth.  Amanda,  smiling  through  her  tears,  en- 
deavored to  answer  his  inquiries;  but  she  was  so  much  affected 
by  her  feelings,  as  to  be  scarcely  able  to  speak ; and  when,  by 

883477 


2 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


her  desire,  he  went  out  to  discharge  the  chaise,  and  assist  the 
young  man  (who  had  traveled  with  her  from  London)  to  bring 
in  her  luggage,  her  head  sunk  upon  her  nurse’s  bosom,  whose 
arms  encircled  her  waist.  ‘ My  dear  faithful  nurse,’  she  sobbed, 
* your  poor  child  is  again  returned  to  seek  an  asylum  from  you.  ’ 
“And  she  is  heartily  welcome,”  replied  the  good  creature,  crying 
herself,  ‘ and  I have  taken  care  to  have  everything  so  nice,  and 
so  tidy,  and  so  comfortable,  that  I warrant  you  the  greatest  laty 
in  the  land  need  not  disdain  your  apartments  ; and  here  are  two 
little  girls,  as  well  as  myself,  that  will  always  be  ready  to  attend, 
serve,  and  obey  you.  This  is  Ellen,  your  own  foster-sister;  and 
this  is  Betsey,  the  little  thing  I had  in  the  cradle  when  you 
went  away — and  I have  besides,  though  I say  it  myself  that 
should  not  say  it,  two  as  fine  lads  as  you  could  wish  to  see  ; they 
are  now  at  work  at  a farmer’s  hard  by  ; but  they  will  be  here 
presently.  Thank  Cot,  we  are  all  happy,  though  obliged  to  earn 
our  own  bread  ; but’tis  sweeter  for  that  reason,  since  labor  gives 
us  health  to  enjoy  it,  and  contentment  blesses  us  all.  ’ Amanda 
affectionately  embraced  the  two  girls,  who  were  the  pictures  of 
health  and  cheerfulness,  and  was  then  conducted  into  a little  par* 
lor,  which,  with  a small  bedchamber  adjoining  it,  was  appropri- 
ated to  her  use.  The  neatness  of  the  room  was  truly  pleasing  ; 
the  fioor  was  nicely  sanded  ; the  hearth  was  dressed  with  ‘ fiow- 
ers  and  fennel  gay’;  and  the  chimney-piece  adorned  with  a 
range  of  broken  teacups,  ‘ wisely  kept  for  show  ’ ; a clock  ticked 
behind  the  door  ; and  an  ebony  cupboard  displayed  a profusion 
of  the  showiest  ware  the  country  could  produce.  And  now  the 
nurse,  on  ‘hospitable  thought  intent,’  hurried  from  Amanda  to 
prepare  her  dinner.  The  chicken,  as  she  said  herself,  was  ready  to 
pop  down  in  a minute  ; Ellen  tied  the  asparagus  ; and  Betsey  laid 
the  cloth  ; Edwin  drew  his  best  cider,  and,  having  brought  it  in 
himself,  retired  to  entertain  his  guest  in  the  kitchen  (Amanda’s 
traveling  companion), before  whom  he  had  already  set  some  of  his 
most  substantial  fare. 

Binner,  in  the  opinion  of  Amanda,  was  served  in  a moment  ; 
but  her  heart  was  too  full  to  eat,  though  pressed  to  do  so  with 
the  utmost  tenderness,  a tenderness  which,  in  truth,  was  the  means 
of  overcoming  her. 

When  insulted  by  malice,  or  oppressed  by  cruelty,  the  heart  can 
assume  a stern  fortitude  foreign  to  its  nature  ; but  this  seeming 
apathy  vanishes  at  the  voice  of  kindness,  as  the  rigid  frost  of  winter 
melts  before  the  gentle  infiuenceof  the  sun,  and  tears,  gushing  tears 
of  gratitude  and  sensibility,  express  its  yielding  feelings.  Sacred 
are  such  tears  ; they  fiow  from  the  sweet  source  of  social  affection  : 
the  good  alone  can  shed  them. 

Her  nurse’s  sons  soon  returned  from  their  labor  ; two  fine  nub 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


3 


brown  youths.  They  had  been  the  companions  of  her  infant  sports, 
and  she  spoke  to  them  with  the  most  engaging  affability. 

Domestic  bliss  and  rural  felicity  Amanda  had  always  been  ac- 
customed to,  till  within  a short  period  ; her  attachment  to  them  was 
still  as  strong  as  ever,  and  had  her  father  been  with  her,  she  would 
have  been  happy. 

It  was  now  about  the  middle  of  June,  and  the  whole  country  was 
glowing  with  luxuriant  beauty.  The  cottage  was  in  reality  a com- 
fortable, commodious  farmhouse  ; it  was  situated  in  North  Wales,, 
and  the  romantic  scenery  surrounding  it  was  highly  pleasing  to  a 
disposition  like  Amanda’s,  which  delighted  equally  in  the  sublime 
and  beautiful.  The  front  of  the  cottage  was  almost  covered  with 
woodbine,  intermingled  with  vines  ; and  the  lane  already  men- 
tioned formed  a shady  avenue  up  to  the  very  door  ; one  side  over- 
looked a deep  valley,  winding  among  hills  clad  in  the  liveliest 
verdure  ; a clear  stream  running  through  it  turned  a mill  in  its 
course,  and  afforded  a salutary  coolness  to  the  herds  which  rumi- 
nated on  its  banks  ; the  other  side  commanded  a view  of  rich 
pastures,  terminated  by  a thick  grove,  whose  natural  vistas  gave 
a view  of  cultivated  farms,  a small  irregular  village,  the  spire  of 
its  church,  and  a fine  old  castle,  whose  stately  turrets  rose  above 
the  trees  surrounding  them. 

The  farmyard,  at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  was  stocked  with 
poultry  and  all  the  implements  of  rural  industry  ; the  garden  was 
divided  from  it  by  a rude  paling,  interwoven  with  honeysuckles 
and  wild  roses;  the  part  appropriated  for  vegetables  divided  from 
the  part  sacred  to  Flora  by  rows  of  fruit  trees ; a craggy  precipice 
hung  over  it,  covered  with  purple  and  yellow  flowers,  thyme,  and 
other  odoriferous  herbs,  which  afforded  browsage  to  three  or  four 
goats  that  skipped  about  in  playful  gambols;  a silver  stream 
trickled  down  the  precipice,  and  winding  around  a plantation  of 
shrubs,  fell  with  a gentle  murmur  into  the  valley.  Beneath  a 
projecting  fragment  of  the  rock  a natural  recess  was  formed, 
thickly  lined  with  moss,  and  planted  round  with  a succession  jz 
beautiful  flowers. 

Here,  scattered  wiM,  the  lily  of  the  vale 

Its  balmy  essence  breathes  ; here  cowslips  hang 

The  dewy  head,  and  purple  violets  lurk— 

With  all  the  lowly  children  of  the  shade.— Thomson. 

Of  those  scenes  Amanda  had  but  an  imperfect  recollection ; such 
a faint  idea  as  we  retain  of  a confused  but  agreeable  dream,  which 
though  we  cannot  explain,  leaves  a pleasing  impression  behind. 

Peculiar  circumstances  had  driven  her  from  tlie  shelter  of  a 
parent’s  arms,  to  seek  security  in  retirement  at  this  abode  of  sim- 
plicity and  peace.  Here  the  perturbation  of  fear  subsided ; but  the 
soft  melancholy  of  her  soul  at  times  was  heightened,  when  she  re- 


4 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


fleeted,  that  in  this  very  place  an  unfortunate  mother  had  expired 
almost  at  the  moment  of  giving  her  birth. 

Amanda  was  now  about  nineteen ; a description  of  her  face  and 
person  would  not  do  her  justice,  as  it  never  could  convey  a full 
idea  of  the  ineffable  sweetness  and  sensibility  of  the  former,  or  the 
striking  elegance  and  beautiful  proportion  of  the  latter. 

Sorrow  had  faded  her  vivid  bloom;  for  the  distresses  of  her 
father  weighed  heavy  on  her  heart,  and  the  blossom  drooped  with 
the  tree  which  supported  it.  Her  agonized  parent  witnessing  this 
sudden  change,  sent  her  into  Wales,  as  much  for  health  as  for 
security ; she  was  ordered  goat’s  whey  and  gentle  exercise ; but  she 
firmly  believed  that  consolation  on  her  father’s  account  could  alone 
effect  a cure. 

Though  the  rose  upon  her  cheek  was  pale,  and  the  luster  of  her 
eyes  was  fled,  she  was  from  those  cii*cumstances  (if  less  dazzling 
to  the  eye)  more  affecting  to  the  heart.  Cold  and  unfeeling  in- 
deed must  that  one  have  been,  who  could  see  her  unmoved ; for 
hers  was  that  interesting  face  and  figure  which  had  power  to  fix 
the  wandering  eye  and  change  the  gaze  of  admiration  into  the 
throb  of  sensibility  : nor  was  her  mind  inferior  to  the  form  that 
enshrined  it. 

She  now  exerted  her  spirits  in  gratitude  to  her  humble  but  be- 
nevolent friends.  Her  arrival  had  occasioned  a little  festival  at 
the  cottage  : the  tea  things,  which  were  kept  more  for  show  than 
use  in  the  ebony  cupboard,  were  now  taken  out  and  carried  by  her 
desire  to  the  recess  in  the  garden ; whither  Mrs.  Edwin  followed 
the  family  with  a hot  cake,  Amanda  thought  large  enough  to 
serve  half  the  principality. 

The  scene  was  delightful,  and  well  calculated  to  banish  all  sad- 
ness but  despair  ; Amanda  was  therefore  cheered  ; for  she  was  too 
much  the  child  of  piety  ever  to  have  felt  its  baneful  influence. 
In  the  midst  of  her  troubles  she  still  looked  up  with  confidence 
to  that  Power  who  has  promised  never  to  forsake  the  righteous. 

The  harmless  jest,  the  jocund  laugh  went  round,  and  Amanda 
enjoyed  the  innocent  gayety  ; for  a benevolent  mind  will  ever 
derive  pleasure  from  the  happiness  of  others.  The  declining  sun 
now  gave  softer  beauties  to  the  extensive  scenery;  the  lowing  of 
the  cattle  was  faintly  echoed  by  the  neighboring  hills ; the  cheer- 
ful carol  of  the  peasant  floated  on  the  evening  gale,  that  stole  per- 
fumes from  the  beds  of  flowers  and  wafted  them  around;  the 
busy  bees  had  now  completed  the  delicious  labor  of  the  day,  and 
with  incessant  hummings  sought  their  various  hives,  while — 

Every  copse 

Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 
Were  prodigal  of  harmony.— Thomson. 

To  complete  the  concert,  a blind  harper,  who  supported  him 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


5 


self  by  summer  rambles  through  the  country,  strolled  into  the 
garden ; and  after  a plentiful  repast  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  nut- 
brown  ale,  began  playing. 

The  venerable  appearance  of  the  musician,  the  simple  melody 
of  his  harp,  recalled  to  Amanda’s  recollection  the  tales  of  other 
times,  in  which  she  had  so  often  delighted : it  sent  her  soul  back 
to  the  ages  of  old,  to  the  days  of  other  years,  when  bards  rehearsed 
the  exploits  of  heroes,  and  sung  the  praises  of  the  dead.  ‘ While 
the  ghosts  of  those  they  sung,  came  in  their  rustling  winds,  and 
were  seen  to  bend  with  joy  toward  the  sound  of  their  praise.' 
To  proceed,  in  the  beautiful  language  of  Ossian,  ‘ The  sound 
was  mournful  and  low,  like  the  song  of  the  tomb ; ’ such  as  Fin- 
gal  heard,  when  the  crowded  sighs  of  his  bosom  rose ; and,  ‘ some 
of  my  heroes  are  low,  ’ said  the  gray-haired  King  of  Morven : ‘ I 

hear  the  sound  of  death  on  the  harp.  Ossian,  touch  the  trembling 
string.  Bid  the  sorrow  rise  that  their  spirits  may  fly  with  joy  to 
Morven’s  woody  hills.  He  touched  the  harp  before  the  king ; the 
sound  was  mournful  and  low.  Bend  forward  from  your  clouds,’ 
he  said,  ‘ ghosts  of  my  fathers,  bend.  Lay  by  the  red  terror  of 
your  course.  Keceive  the  falling  chief ; whether  he  comes  from 
a distant  land  or  risen  from  the  rolling  sea,  let  his  robe  of  mist  be 
near ; his  spear,  that  is  formed  of  a cloud ; place  an  half-extin- 
guished  meteor  by  his  side,  in  the  form  of  the  hero’s  sword.  And, 
oh ! let  his  countenance  be  lovely,  that  his  friends  may  delight  in 
his  presence.  Bend  from  your  clouds,’  he  said  ‘ghosts  of  my 
fathers,  bend.’ 

The  sweet  enthusiasm  which  arose  in  Amanda’s  mind,  from 
her  present  situation,  her  careful  nurse  soon  put  an  end  to,  by  re- 
minding her  of  the  heavy  dew  then  falling.  Amanda  could  have 
stayed  for  hours  in  the  garden ; but  resigning  her  inclination  to 
her  nurse’s,  she  immediately  accompanied  her  into  the  house. 
She  soon  felt  inclined  to  retire  to  rest ; and,  after  a slight  supper 
of  strawberries  and  cream  (which  was  all  they  could  prevail  on 
her  to  touch),  she  withdrew  to  her  chamber,  attended  by  the  nurse 
and  her  two  daughters,  who  all  thought  their  services  requisite; 
and  it  was  not  without  much  difficulty  Amanda  persuaded  them 
to  the  contrary. 

Left  to  solitude,  a tender  awe  stole  upon  the  mind  of  Amanda, 
when  she  reflected  that  in  this  very  room  her  mother  had  expired. 
The  recollection  of  her  sufferings — the  sorrows  her  father  and  self 
had  experienced  since  the  period  of  her  death — the  distresses  they 
still  felt  and  might  yet  go  through— all  raised  a sudden  agony  in 
her  soul,  and  tears  burst  forth.  She  went  to  the  bed,  and  knelt 
beside  it;  ‘ Oh ! my  mother,’  she  cried,  ‘ if  thy  departed  spirit  be 
permitted  to  look  down  upon  this  world,  hear  and  regard  the  sup- 
plications of  thy  child,  for  thy  protection  amidst  the  snares  which 


6 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


may  be  spread  for  her.  Yet,^  continued  she,  after  a pause,*  that 
Being,  who  has  taken  thee  to  himself,  will,  if  I continue  innocent, 
extend  his  guardian  care;  to  him,  therefore,  to  him  be  raised  the 
fervent  prayer  for  rendering  abortive  every  scheme  of  treachery.  ’ 

She  prayed  with  all  the  fervency  of  devotion ; her  wandering 
thoughts  were  all  restrained,  and  her  passions  gradually  subsided 
into  a calm. 

W armed  by  a pure  and  ardent  piety,  that  sacred  power  which 
comes  with  healing  on  its  wings  to  the  afflicted  children  of  human- 
ity, she  felt  a placid  hope  spring  in  her  heart,  that  whispered  to 
it,  all  would  yet  be  well. 

She  arose  tranquil  and  animated.  The  inhabitants  of  the  cot- 
tage had  retired  to  repose ; and  she  heard  no  sound  save  the  tick- 
ing of  the  clock  from  the  outside  room.  She  went  to  the  window, 
and  raising  the  white  calico  curtain,  looked  down  the  valley ; it 
was  illumined  by  the  beams  of  the  moon,  which  tipped  the  trees 
with  a shadowy  silver,  and  threw  a line  of  radiance  on  the  clear 
rivulet.  All  was  still,  as  if  creation  slept  upon  the  bosom  of 
serenity.  Here,  while  contemplating  the  scene,  a sudden  flutter 
at  the  window  startled  her;  and  she  saw  in  a moment  after  a bird 
flit  across,  and  perch  upon  a tree  whose  boughs  shaded  the  case- 
ment; a soft  serenade  was  immediately  begun  by  the  sweet  and 
plaintive  bird  of  night. 

Amanda  at  length  dropped  the  curtain  and  sought  repose ; it  soon 
blessed  her  eyelids,  and  sht.^,  a sweet  oblivion  over  all  her  cares. 

Sleep  on,  sweet  innocent? 

And  when  a soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 

A thousand  liveried  angels  lackey  it. 

Driving,  far  off  all  thought  of  harm  or  sin. — Milton  . 


CHAPTER  II. 

Canst  thou  bear  cold  and  hunger  ? Can  these  limbs. 

Framed  for  the  tender  otSces  of  love, 

Endure  the  bitter  gripes  of  smarting  poverty  ? 

When  in  a bed  of  straw  we  shrink  together, 

And  the  bleak  winds  shall  whistle  round  our  heads. 

Wilt  thou  talk  to  me  thus. 

Thus  hush  my  cares,  and  shelter  me  with  love  ?— Otway. 

Fitzalan,  the  father  of  Amanda,  was  the  descendant  of  an 
ancient  Irish  family,  which  had,  however,  unfortunately  attained 
the  summit  of  its  prosperity  long  before  his  entrance  into  life;  so 
that  little  more  than  a name,  once  dignified  by  illustrious  actions, 
was  left  to  its  posterity.  The  parents  of  Fitzalan  were  supported 
by  an  employment  under  government,  which  enabled  them  to  save 
a small  sum  for  their  son  and  only  child,  who  at  an  early  period  be- 
came its  sole  master,  by  their  dying,  within  a short  period  of  each 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  7 

other.  As  soon  as  he  had  in  some  degree  recovered  the  shock  ot 
such  calamities,  he  laid  out  his  little  pittance  in  the  purchase  of  a 
commission,  as  a profession  best  suiting  his  inclinations  and 
finances. 

The  war  between  America  and  France  had  then  just  commenced ; 
and  Fitzalan’s  regiment  was  among  the  first  forces  sent  to  the  aid 
of  the  former.  The  scenes  of  war,  though  dreadfully  affecting  to 
a soul  of  exquisite  sensibility,  such  as  he  possessed,  had  not  power 
to  damp  the  ardor  of  his  spirit  ; for  with  the  name,  he  inherited 
the  hardy  resolution  of  his  progenitors. 

He  had  once  the  good  fortune  to  save  the  life  c!  a British  soldier; 
he  was  one  of  a small  party,  who,  by  the  treachery  of  their  guides, 
were  suddenly  surprised  in  a wood,  through  which  they  were 
obliged  to  pass  to  join  another  detachment  of  the  army.  Their 
only  way  in  this  alarming  exigence  was  to  retreat  to  the  fort  from 
whence  they  had  but  lately  issued  : encompassed  as  they  were  by 
the  enemy,  this  was  not  achieved  without  the  greatest  difficulty. 
Just  as  they  had  reached  it,  Fitzalan  saw,  far  behind  them,  a poor 
soldier,  who  had  been  wounded  at  the  first  onset,  just  overtaken 
by  two  Indians.  Yielding  to  the  impulse  of  compassion  in  which 
all  idea  of  self  was  lost,  Fitzalan  hastily  turned  to  his  assistance, 
and  flinging  himself  between  the  pursued  and  the  pursuers,  he  kept 
them  at  bay  till  the  poor  creature  had  reached  a place  of  safety. 
This  action,  performed  at  the  imminent  hazard  of  hi?:  life,  secured 
him  the  lasting  gratitude  of  the  soldier,  whose  name  was  Edwin  ; 
the  same  that  now  afforded  an  asylum  to  his  daughter. 

Edwin  had  committed  some  juvenile  indiscretions,  which  highly 
incensed  his  parents;  in  despair  at  incurring  their  resentment,  he 
enlisted  with  a recruiting  party  in  their  neighborhood  : but,  ac- 
customed all  his  life  to  peace  and  plenty,  he  did  not  by  any  meant 
relish  his  new  situation.  His  gratitude  to  Fitzalan  was  un- 
bounded ; he  considered  him  as  the  preserver  of  his  life : and,  on  the 
man’s  being  dismissed  who  had  hitherto  attended  him  as  a servant, 
entreated  he  might  be  taken  in  his  place.  This  entreaty  Fitz- 
alan complied  with;  he  was  pleased  with  Edwin’s  manner;  and, 
having  heard  the  little  history  of  his  misfortunes,  promised,  on 
their  return  to  Europe,  to  intercede  with  his  friends  for  him. 

During  his  stay  abroad,  Fitzalan  was  promoted  to  a captain-lieu- 
tenancy ; his  pay  was  his  only  support,  which,  of  necessity,  checked 
the  benevolence  of  a spirit  ‘ open  as  day  to  melting  charity.’ 

On  the  regiment’s  return  to  Europe,  he  obtained  Edwin’s  dis- 
charge, who  longed  to  reenter  upon  his  former  mode  of  life.  He 
accompanied  the  penitent  himself  into  Wales,  where  he  was  re- 
ceived with  the  truest  rapture. 

In  grief  for  his  loss,  his  parents  had  forgotten  all  resentment 
for  his  errors,  which,  indeed,  had  never  been  very  great ; they  had 


8 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


lost  their  two  remaining  children  during  his  absence,  and  now 
ceived  him  as  the  sole  comfort  and  hope  of  their  age. 

His  youthful  protector  was  blest  with  the  warmest  gratitudes 
tears  filled  his  fine  eyes,  as  he  beheld  the  pleasure  of  his  parents, 
and  the  contrition  of  the  son ; and  he  departed  with  that  heartfelt 
pleasure,  which  ever  attends  and  rewards  an  action  of  humanity. 

He  now  accompanied  his  regiment  into  Scotland;  they  were 
quartered  at  a fort  in  a remote  part  of  that  kingdom. 

Near  the  fort  was  a fine  old  abbey,  belonging  to  the  family  of 
Dunreath;  the  high  hills  which  nearly  encompassed  it  were  al- 
most all  covered  with  trees,  whose  dark  shades  gave  an  appear- 
ance of  gloomy  solitude  to  the  building. 

The  present  possessor,  the  Earl  of  Dunreath,  was  now  far  ad- 
vanced in  life ; twice  had  he  married,  in  expectation  of  a male 
heir  to  his  large  estates,  and  twice  he  had  been  disappointed.  His 
first  lady  had  expired  immediately  after  the  birth  of  a daughter. 
She  had  taken  under  her  protection  a young  female,  who,  by  un- 
expected vicissitudes  in  her  family,  was  left  destitute  of  support. 
On  the  demise  of  her  patroness,  she  retired  from  the  Abbey  to  the 
house  of  a kinswoman  in  its  vicinity ; the  Earl  of  Dunreath,  ac- 
customed to  her  society,  felt  his  solitude  doubly  augmented  by 
her  absence.  He  had  ever  followed  the  dictates  of  inclination, 
and  would  not  disobey  them  now : ere  the  term  of  mourning  was 
expired,  he  offered  her  his  hand,  and  was  accepted. 

The  fair  orphan,  now  triumphant  mistress  of  the  Abbey,  found 
there  was  no  longer  occasion  to  check  her  natural  propensities. 
Her  soul  was  vain,  unfeeling,  and  ambitious;  and  her  sudden 
elevation  broke  down  all  the  barriers  which  prudence  had  hitherto 
opposed  to  her  passions. 

She.soon  gained  an  absolute  ascendancy  over  her  lord — she 
knew  how  to  assume  the  smile  of  complacency,  and  the  accent  of 
sensibility. 

Forgetful  of  the  kindness  of  her  late  patroness,  she  treated  the 
infant  she  had  left  with  the  most  cruel  neglect;  a neglect  which 
was,  if  possible,  increased  on  the  birth  of  her  own  daughter,  as 
she  could  not  bear  that  Augusta  (instead  of  possessing  the  whole) 
should  only  share  the  affection  and  estates  of  her  father.  She 
contrived  by  degrees  to  alienate  the  former  from  the  innocent 
Malvina;  and  she  trusted  she  should  find  means  to  deprive  her 
of  the  latter. 

Terrified  by  violence,  and  depressed  by  severity,  the  child  looked 
dejected  and  unhappy;  and  this  appearance  Lady  Dunreath 
made  the  Earl  believe  proceeded  from  sulkiness  and  natural  ilh 
humor.  Her  own  child,  unrestrained  in  any  wish  of  her  heart, 
was,  from  her  playful  gayety,  a constant  source  of  amusement  to 
the  Earl ; her  mother  had  taken  care  to  instruct  her  in  all  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


9 


fittle  endearments  which,  when  united  with  infantine  sweetness, 
allure  almost  imperceptibly  the  affections. 

Malvina,  ere  she  knew  the  meaning  of  sorrow,  thus  became  its 
prey;  but  in  spite  of  envy  or  ill  treatment,  she  grew  up  with  all 
the  graces  of  mind  and  form  that  had  distinguished  her  mother ; 
her  air  was  at  once  elegant  and  commanding ; her  face  replete 
with  sweetness ; and  her  fine  eyes  had  a mixture  of  sensibility 
and  languor  in  them,  which  spoke  to  the  feeling  soul. 

Augusta  was  also  a fine  figure ; but  unpossessed  of  the  winning 
graces  of  elegance  and  modesty  which  adorned  her  sister,  her  form 
always  appeared  decorated  with  the  most  studied  art,  and  her 
large  eyes  had  a confident  assurance  in  them  that  seemed  to  ex- 
pect and  demand  universal  homage. 

The  warriors  of  the  fort  were  welcome  visitants  at  the  Abbey ^ 
which  Lady  Dunreath  contrived  to  render  a scene  of  almost  con- 
stant gayety,  by  keeping  up  a continual  intercourse  with  all  the 
adjacent  families,  and  entertaining  all  the  strangers  who  came 
into  its  neighborhood. 

Lord  Dunreath  had  long  been  a prey  to  infirmities,  which  at 
this  period  generally  confined  him  to  his  room ; but  though  his 
body  was  debilitated,  his  mind  retained  all  its  active  powers. 

The  first  appearance  of  the  officers  at  the  Abbey  was  at  a ball 
given  by  Lady  Dunreath,  in  consequence  of  their  arrival  near 
it;  the  Gothic  apartments  were  decorated,  and  lighted  up  with  a 
splendor  that  at  once  displayed  taste  and  magnificence ; the  lights, 
the  music,  the  brilliancy,  and  unusual  gayety  of  the  company, 
all  gave  to  the  spirits  of  Malvina  an  agreeable  flutter  they  had 
never  before  experienced ; and  a brighter  bloom  than  usual  stole 
over  her  lovely  cheek. 

The  young  co-heiresses  were  extremely  admired  by  the  military 
heroes.  Malvina,  as  the  eldest,  opened  the  ball  with  the  colonel; 
her  form  had  attracted  the  eyes  of  Fitzalan,  and  vainly  he  at- 
tempted to  withdraw  them,  till  the  lively  conversation  of  Augusta, 
who  honored  him  with  her  hand,  forced  him  to  restrain  his  glances, 
and  pay  her  the  sprightly  attentions  so  generally  expected — when 
he  came  to  turn  Malvina,  he  involuntarily  detained  her  hand  for 
a moment:  she  blushed,  and  the  timid* beam  that  stole  from  her 
half-a verted  eyes  agitated  his  whole  soul. 

Partners  were  changed  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and  he 
seized  the  first  opportunity  that  offered  for  engaging  her ; the  soft- 
ness of  her  voice,  the  simplicity  yet  elegance  of  her  language,  now 
captivated  his  heart,  as  much  as  her  form  had  charmed  his  eyes. 

Never  had  he  before  seen  an  object  he  thought  half  so  lovely 
or  engaging ; with  her  he  could  not  support  that  lively  strain  of 
conversation  he  had  done  with  her  sister.  Where  the  heart  uf 
much  interested,  it  will  not  admit  of  trifling. 


10 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Fitzalan  was  now  in  the  meridian  of  manhood ; his  stature  wai 
above  the  common  size,  and  elegance  and  dignity  were  conspicu- 
ous in  it;  his  features  were  regularly  handsome,  and  the  fairness 
of  his  forehead  proved  what  his  complexion  had  been,  till  change 
of  climate  and  hardship  had  embrowned  it;  the  expression  of  his 
countenance  was  somewhat  plaintive:  his  eyes  had  a sweetness  in 
them  that  spoke  a soul  of  the  tenderest  feelings;  and  the  smile 
that  played  around  his  mouth  would  have  adorned  a face  of  female 
beauty. 

When  the  dance  with  Lady  Malvina  was  over,  Lady  Augusta 
took  care  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  to  engross  all  his  atten- 
tion. She  thought  him  by  far  the  handsomest  man  in  the  room, 
and  gave  him  no  opportunity  of  avoiding  her ; gallantry  obliged 
him  to  return  her  assiduities,  and  he  was  by  his  brother  officers  set 
down  in  the  list  of  her  adorers.  This  mistake  he  encouraged : he 
could  bear  raillery  on  an  indifferent  subject;  and  joined  in  the 
mirth,  which  the  idea  of  his  laying  siege  to  the  young  heiress  oc- 
casioned. 

He  deluded  himself  with  no  false  hopes  relative  to  the  real  ob- 
ject of  his  passion;  he  knew  the  obstacles  between  them  were  in- 
superable ; but  his  heart  was  too  proud  to  complain  of  fate ; he 
shook  off  all  appearance  of  melancholy,  and  seemed  more  animated 
than  ever. 

His  visits  at  the  Abbey  became  constant ; Lady  Augusta  took 
them  to  herself,  and  encouraged  his  attentions:  as  her  mother 
rendered  her  perfect  mistress  of  her  own  actions,  she  had  generally 
a levee  of  redcoats  every  morning  in  her  dressing  room.  Lady 
Malvina  seldom  appeared;  she  was  at  those  times  almost  always 
employed  in  reading  to  her  father;  when  that  was  not  the  case, 
her  own  favorite  avocations  often  detained  her  in  her  room ; or 
else  she  wandered  out,  about  the  romantic  rocks  on  the  seashore ; 
she  delighted  in  solitary  rambles,  and  loved  to  visit  the  old 
peasants,  who  told  her  tales  of  her  departed  mother’s  goodness, 
drawing  tears  of  sorrow  from  her  eyes  at  the  irreparable  loss  she 
had  sustained  by  her  death. 

Fitzalan  went  one  morning  as  usual  to  the  Abbey  to  pay  his 
customary  visit ; as  he  went  through  the  gallery  which  led  to  Lady 
Augusta’s  dressing  room,  his  eyes  were  caught  by  two  beautiful 
portraits  of  the  Earl’s  daughters;  an  artist,  by  his  express  desire, 
had  come  to  the  Abbey  to  draw  them,  they  were  but  just  finished, 
and  that  morning  placed  in  the  gallery. 

Lady  Augusta  appeared  negligently  reclined  upon  a sofa,  in  a 
verdant  alcove;  the  flowing  drapery  of  the  loose  robe  in  which 
she  Avas  habited  set  off  her  fine  figure ; little  Cupids  were  seen 
fanning  aside  her  dark-b»own  hair,  and  strewing  roses  on  hef 
pillow. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


11 


Lady  Malvina  was  represented  in  the  simple  attire  of  a peasant 
girl,  leaning  on  a little  grassy  hillock,  whose  foot  was  washed  by 
a clear  stream,  while  her  flocks  browsed  around,  and  her  dog 
rested  beneath  the  shade  of  an  old  tree,  that  waved  its  branches 
over  her  head,  and  seemed  sheltering  her  from  the  beams  of  a 
meridian  sun. 

‘ Beautiful  portrait  I ’ cried  Fitzalan,  ‘ sweet  resemblance  of  a 
seraphic  form ! ’ 

He  heard  a soft  sigh  behind  him ; he  started,  turned,  and  per- 
ceived Lady  Malvina ; in  the  utmost  confusion  he  faltered  out  his 
admiration  of  the  pictures ; and  not  knowing  what  he  did,  fixed 
his  eyes  on  Lady  Augusta’s,  exclaiming,  ‘ How  beautiful ! ’ ‘ ’Tis 

very  handsome  indeed,’  said  Malvina,  with  a more  pensive  voice 
than  usual,  and  led  the  way  to  her  sister’s  drawing-room. 

Lady  Augusta  was  spangling  some  ribbon ; but  at  Fitzalan’s 
entrance  she  threw  it  aside,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  been  admir- 
ing her  picture  ? ‘ Yes,’  he  said,  ‘ ’twas  that  alone  had  prevented 

his  before  paying  his  homage  to  the  original.’  He  proceeded  in  a 
strain  of  compliments,  which  had  more  gallantry  than  sincerity 
in  them.  In  the  course  of  their  trifling  he  snached  a knot  of  the 
spangled  ribbon,  and  pinning  it  next  his  heart  declared  it  should 
remain  there  as  a talisman  against  all  future  impressions. 

He  stole  a glance  at  Lady  Malvina;  she  held  a book  in  her 
hand;  but  her  eyes  were  turned  toward  him,  and  a deadly  pale- 
ness overspread  her  countenance. 

Fitzalan’s  spirits  vanished ; he  started  up,  and  declared  he  must 
be  gone  immediately.  The  dejection  of  Lady  lilalvina  dwelt  upon 
his  heart;  it  fiattered  his  fondness,  but  pained  his  sensibility.  He 
left  the  fort  in  the  evening,  immediately  after  he  had  retired  from 
the  mess ; he  strolled  to  the  seaside,  and  rambled  a considerable 
way  among  the  rocks.  The  scene  was  wild  and  solemn;  the 
shadows  of  evening  were  beginning  to  descend ; the  waves  stole 
with  low  murmurs  upon  the  shore,  and  a soft  breeze  gently 
agitated  the  marine  plants  that  grew  among  the  crevices  of  the 
rocks;  already  were  the  sea  fowl,  with  harsh  and  melancholy 
cries,  flocking  to  their  nests,  some  lightly  skimming  over  the  water 
while  others  were  seen,  like  dark  clouds,  arising  from  the  long 
heath  on  the  neighboring  hills.  Fitzalan  pursued  his  way  in 
deep  and  melancholy  meditation,  from  which  a plaintive  Scotch 
air,  sung  by  the  melting  voice  of  harmony  itself,  roused  him.  He 
looked  toward  the  spot  from  whence  the  sound  proceeded,  and  be- 
held Lady  Malvina  standing  on  a low  rock,  a projection  of  it  afford- 
ing her  support.  Nothing  could  be  more  picturesque  than  her  ap- 
pearance: she  looked  like  one  of  the  beautiful  forms  which  Ossian 
BO  often  describes : her  white  dress  fluttered  in  the  wind,  and  hei 
dark  hair  hung  disheveled  around  her.  Fitzalan  moved  softly 


12 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


and  stopped  behind  her : she  wept  as  she  sung,  and  wiped  away 
her  tears  as  she  ceased  singing;  she  sighed  heavily.  ‘Ah!  my 
mother,’ she  exclaimed,  ‘why  was  Malvina  left  behind  you?’ 
‘ To  bless  and  improve  mankind,’  cried  Fitzalan.  She  screamed, 
and  would  have  fallen,  had  he  not  caught  her  in  his  arms ; he  pre- 
vailed on  her  to  sit  down  upon  the  rock,  and  allow  him  to  support 
her  till  her  agitation  had  subsided.  ‘ And  why,’  cried  he,  ‘ should 
Lady  Malvina  give  way  to  melancholy,  blest  as  she  is  with  all  that 
can  render  life  desirable?  Why  seek  its  indulgence,  by  rambling 
about  those  dreary  rocks;  fit  haunts  alone  [he  might  have  added], 
for  wretchedness  and  me  ? Can  I help  wondering  at  your  dejec- 
tion [he  continued],  when  to  all  appearance  (at  least)  I see  you 
possessed  of  everything  requisite  to  constitute  felicity?  ’ 

‘ Appearances  are  often  deceitful,’  said  Malvina,  forgetting  in 
that  moment  the  caution  she  had  hitherto  inviolably  observed,  of 
never  hinting  at  the  ill-treatment  she  received  from  the  Countess 
of  Dunreath  and  her  daughter.  ‘ Appearances  are  often  deceit- 
ful,’ she  said,  ‘ as  I,  alas!  too  fatally  experience.  The  glare,  the 
ostentation  of  wealth,  a soul  of  sensibility  would  willingly  resign 
for  privacy  and  plainness  if  they  were  to  be  attended  with  real 
friendship  and  sympathy.’ 

‘ And  how  few,’  cried  Fitzalan,  turning  his  expressive  eyes  upon 
her  face,  ‘ can  know  Lady  Malvina  without  feeling  friendship  for 
her  virtues,  and  sympathy  for  her  sorrows!’  As  he  spoke,  he 
pressed  her  hand  against  his  heart,  and  she  felt  the  knot  of  ribbon 
he  had  snatched  from  her  sister:  she  instantly  withdrew  her 
hand,  and  darting  a haughty  glance  at  him,  ‘ Captain  Fitzalan,* 
said  she,  ‘ you  were  going,  I believe,  to  Lady  Augusta;  let  me  no\ 
detain  you.’ 

Fitzalan’s  passions  were  no  longer  under  the  dominion  of 
reason ; he  tore  the  ribbon  from  his  breast  and  flung  it  into  the 
sea.  ‘ Going  to  Lady  Augusta ! ’ he  exclaimed,  ‘ and  is  her  lovely 
sister  then  really  deceived?  Ah!  Lady  Malvina,  I now  gaze  on 
the  dear  attraction  that  drew  me  to  the  Abbey.  The  feelings  of  a 
real,  a hopeless  passion  could  ill  support  raillery  or  observation : 
I hid  my  passion  within  the  recesses  of  my  heart,  and  gladly  al- 
lowed my  visits  to  be  placed  to  the  account  of  an  object  truly  in 
different,  that  I might  have  opportunities  of  seeing  an  object  L 
adored.’  Malvina  blushed  and  trembled:  ‘Fitzalan,’  cried  she 
after  a pause,  ‘ I detest  deceit.  ’ 

‘ I abhor  it  too.  Lady  Malvina,’  said  he ; ‘ but  why  should  I now 
endeavor  to  prove  my  sincerity,  when  I know  it  is  so  immaterial? 
Excuse  me  for  what  I have  already  uttered,  and  believe  that, 
though  susceptible,  I am  not  aspiring.’  He  then  presented  his 
hand  to  Malvina;  she  descended  from  her  seat,  and  they  walked 
toward  the  Abbey.  Lady  Malvina’s  pace  was  slow,  and  hejf 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


13 


blushes,  had  Fitzalan  looked  at  her,  would  have  expressed  more 
pleasure  than  resentment : she  seemed  to  expect  a still  further  dec- 
laration; but  Fitzalan  was  too  confused  to  speak;  nor  indeed  was 
it  his  intention  again  to  indulge  himself  on  the  dangerous  subject. 
They  proceeded  in  silence ; at  the  Abbey  gate  they  stopped,  and 
he  wished  her  good-night.  ‘ Shall  we  not  soon  see  you  at  the 
Abbey?’  exclaimed  Lady  Malvina  in  a flurried  voice,  which 
seemed  to  say  she  thought  his  adieu  rather  a hasty  one.  ‘ No,  my 
lovely  friend,’  cried  Fitzalan,  pausing,  while  he  looked  upon  her 
with  the  most  impassioned  tenderness, — ‘ in  future  I shall  confine 
myself  chiefly  to  the  fort.  ’ ‘ Do  you  dread  an  invasion  ? ’ asked 

she,  smiling,  while  a stolen  glance  of  her  eyes  gave  peculiar 
meaning  to  her  words.  ‘ I long  dreaded  that,  ’ cried  he  in  the  same 
strain,  ‘ and  my  fears  were  well  founded;  but  I must  now  muster 
all  my  powers  to  dislodge  the  enemy.’  He  kissed  her  hand,  and 
precipitately  retired. 

Lady  Malvina  repaired  to  her  chamber, in  such  a tumult  of  pleas- 
ure as  she  had  never  before  experienced.  She  admired  Fitzalan 
from  the  first  evening  she  beheld  him ; though  his  attentions  were 
directed  to  her  sister,  the  language  of  his  eyes,  to  her,  contradic- 
ted any  attachment  these  attentions  might  have  intimated ; his 
gentleness  and  sensibility  seemed  congenial  to  her  own.  Hitherto 
she  had  been  the  slave  of  tyranny  and  caprice ; and  now,  for  the 
first  time,  experienced  that  soothing  tenderness  her  wounded  feel- 
ings had  so  long  sighed  for.  She  was  agitated  and  delighted ; she 
overlooked  every  obstacle  to  her  wishes ; and  waited  impatiently 
a further  explanation  of  Fitzalan’s  sentiments. 

Far  different  were  his  feelings  from  hers : to  know  he  was  be- 
loved could  scarcely  yield  him  pleasure,  when  he  reflected  on  his 
hopeless  situation,  which  forbade  his  availing  himself  of  any  ad- 
vantage that  knowledge  might  have  afforded.  Of  a union  indeed 
he  did  not  dare  to  think,  since  its  consequences,  he  knew,  must  be 
destruction ; for  rigid  and  austere  as  the  Earl  was  represented,  he 
could  not  fiatter  himself  he  would  ever  pardon  such  a step;  and 
the  means  of  supporting  Lady  Malvina,  in  any  degree  of  comfort, 
he  did  not  possess  himself.  He  determined,  as  much  as  possible, 
to  avoid  her  presence,  and  regretted  continually  having  yielded 
to  the  impulse  of  his  heart  and  revealed  his  love,  since  he  believed 
it  had  augmented  hers. 

By  degrees  he  discontinued  his  visits  at  the  Abbey ; but  he  often 
met  Lady  Malvina  at  parties  in  the  neighborhood : caution,  how- 
ever, always  sealed  his  lips,  and  every  appearance  of  particularity 
was  avoided.  The  time  now  approached  for  the  departure  of  the 
regiment  from  Scotland,  and  Lady  Malvina,  instead  of  the  ex^ 
planation  she  so  fondly  expected,  so  ardently  desired,  saw  Fitz- 
alan studious  to  avoid  her. 


14 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


The  disappointment  this  conduct  gave  rise  to  was  too  much  tot 
the  tender  and  romantic  heart  of  Malvina  to  bear  without  secretly 
repining.  Society  grew  irksome;  she  became  more  than  ever 
attached  to  solitary  rambles,  which  gave  opportunities  of  indulg- 
ing her  sorrows  without  restraint : sorrows,  pride  often  reproached 
her  for  experiencing. 

It  was  within  a week  of  the  change  of  garrison,  when  Malvina 
repaired  one  evening  to  the  rock  where  Fitzalan  had  disclosed  his 
tenderness ; a similarity  of  feeling  had  led  him  thither ; he  saw  his 
danger,  but  he  had  no  power  to  retreat ; he  sat  down  by  Malvina, 
and  they  conversed  for  some  time  on  indifferent  subjects ; at  last, 
after  a pause  of  a minute,  Malvina  exclaimed,  ‘ You  go  then, 
Fitzalan,  never,  never,  I suppose,  to  return  here  again ! ’ ‘ ’Tis 

probable  I may  not  indeed,’  said  he.  ‘ Then  we  shall  never  meet 
again,’  cried  she,  while  a trickling  tear  stole  down  her  lovely 
cheek,  which,  tinged  as  it  was  with  the  flush  of  agitation,  looked 
now  like  a half-blown  rose  moistened  with  the  dews  of  early 
morning. 

‘ Yes,  my  lovely  friend,’  said  he,  ‘ we  shall  meet  again — we  shall 
meet  in  a better  place:  in  that  heaven,’  continued  he,  sighing,  and 
laying  his  cold,  trembling  hand  upon  hers,  ‘ which  will  recom- 
pense all  our  sufferings.’  ‘You  are  melancholy  to-night,  Fitz- 
alan,’ cried  Lady  Malvina,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate. 

‘ Oh  ! can  you  wonder  at  it  ? ’ exclaimed  he,  overcome  by  her 
emotion,  and  forgetting  in  a moment  all  his  resolutions — ‘ Oh ! can 
you  wonder  at  my  melancholy,  when  I know  not  but  that  this 
is  the  last  time  I shall  see  the  only  woman  I ever  loved — when  I 
know,  that  in  bidding  her  adieu  I resign  all  the  pleasure,  the  happi- 
ness of  my  life.’ 

Malvina  could  no  longer  restrain  her  feelings ; she  sunk  upon 
his  shoulder  and  wept.  ‘ Good  Heavens ! ’ cried  Fitzalan,  almost 
trembling  beneath  the  lovely  burden  he  supported — ‘ What  a 
cruel  situation  is  mine ! But,  Malvina,  I will  not,  cannot  plunge 
you  in  destruction.  Led  by  necessity,  as  well  as  choice,  to  em- 
brace the  profession  of  a soldier,  I have  no  income  but  what  is 
derived  from  that  profession ; though  my  own  distresses  I could 
bear  with  fortitude,  yours  would  totally  unman  me ; nor  would 
my  honor  be  less  injured  than  my  peace  were  you  involved  in 
difficulties  on  my  account.  Our  separation  is  therefore,  alas ! in- 
. evitable.’ 

‘ Oh!  no,’  exclaimed  Malvina,  ‘ the  difficulties  you  have  men- 
tioned will  vanish.  My  father’s  affections  were  early  alienated 
from  me ; and  my  fate  is  of  little  consequence  to  him — nay,  I have 
reason  to  believe  he  will  be  glad  of  an  excuse  for  leaving  his  largo 
possessions  to  Augusta ; and  oh ! how  little  shall  I envy  her  those 
possessions,  if  the  happy  destiny  I now  look  forward  to  is  mine** 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY* 


15 


As  she  spoke  her  mild  eyes  rested  on  the  face  of  Fitzalan,  who 
clasped  her  to  his  bosom  in  a sudden  transport  of  tenderness.  ‘ But 
though  my  father  is  partial  to  Augusta,’  she  continued,  ‘ I am  sure 
he  will  not  be  unnatural  to  me ; and  though  he  may  withhold 
aflBluence,  he  will,  I am  confident,  allow  me  a competence;  nay, 
Lady  Duiireath,  I believe,  in  pleasure  at  my  removal  from  the  Ab- 
bey, would,  if  he  hesitated  in  that  respect,  become  my  intercessor.’ 

The  energy  with  which  Malvina  spoke  convinced  Fitzalan  of 
the  strength  of  her  affection.  An  ecstasy  never  before  felt  per- 
vaded his  soul  at  the  idea  of  being  so  beloved ; vainly  did  prudence 
whisper,  that  Malvina  might  be  deluding  herself  with  false  hopes, 
the  suggestions  of  love  triumphed  over  every  consideration ; and 
again  folding  the  fair  being  he  held  in  his  arms  to  his  heart,  he 
softly  asked,  would  she,  at  all  events,  unite  her  destiny  with  his. 

Lady  Malvina,  who  firmly  believed  what  she  had  said  to  him 
would  really  happen,  and  who  deemed  a separation  from  him  the 
greatest  misfortune  which  could  possibly  befall  her,  blushed,  and 
faltering  yielded  a willing  consent. 

The  means  of  accomplishing  their  wishes  now  occupied  their 
thoughts.  Fitzalan’s  imagination  was  too  fertile  not  soon  to 
suggest  a scheme  which  had  a probability  of  success  ; he  resolved 
to  intrust  the  chaplain  of  the  regiment  with  the  affair,  and  re- 
quest his  attendance  the  ensuing  night  in  the  chapel  of  the  Abbey, 
where  Lady  Malvina  promised  to  meet  them  with  her  maid,  on 
whose  secrecy  she  thought  she  could  rely. 

It  was  settled  that  Fitzalan  should  pay  a visit  the  next  morning 
at  the  Abbey,  and  give  Malvina  a certain  sign,  if  he  succeeded 
with  the  chaplain. 

The  increasing  darkness  at  length  reminded  them  of  the  late* 
ness  of  the  hour.  Fitzalan  conducted  Malvina  to  the  Abbey  gate, 
where  they  separated,  each  involved  in  a tumult  of  hopes,  fears, 
and  wishes. 

The  next  morning  Lady  Malvina  brought  her  work  into  her 
sister’s  dressing  room ; at  last  Fitzalan  entered ; he  was  attacked 
by  Augusta  for  his  long  absence,  which  he  excused  by  pleading 
regimental  business.  After  trifling  some  time  with  her,  he  pre- 
vailed on  her  to  sit  down  to  the  harpsichord ; and  then  glancing 
to  Malvina,  he  gave  her  the  promised  signal. 

Her  conscious  eyes  were  instantly  bent  to  the  ground ; a crimson 
glow  was  suddenly  succeeded  by  a deadly  paleness;  her  head 
sunk  upon  her  bosom ; and  her  agitation  must  have  excited  sus- 
picions had  it  been  perceived ; but  Fitzalan  purposely  bent  over 
her  sister,  and  thus  gave  her  an  opportunity  of  retiring  unnoticed 
from  the  room.  As  soon  as  she  had  regained  a little  composure, 
she  called  her  maid,  and  after  receiving  many  promises  of  secrecy, 
unfolded  to  her  the  whole  affair.  It  was  long  past  the  midnight 


16 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


hour  ere  Malvina  would  attempt  repairing  to  the  chapel ; when 
she  at  last  rose  for  that  purpose  she  trembled  universally;  a kind 
of  horror  chilled  her  heart ; she  began  to  fear  she  was  about  doing 
wrong,  and  hesitated ; but  when  she  reflected  on  the  noble  gen- 
erosity of  Fitzalan,  and  that  she  herself  had  precipitated  him  into 
the  measure  they  were  about  taking,  her  hesitation  was  over;  and 
leaning  on  her  maid,  she  stole  through  the  winding  galleries,  and 
lightly  descending  the  stall's,  entered  the  long  hall,  which  termi- 
nated in  a dark  arched  passage  that  opened  into  the  chapel. 

This  was  a wild  and  gloomy  structure,  retaining  everywhere 
vestiges  of  that  monkish  superstition  which  had  erected  it ; be- 
neath were  the  vaults  which  contained  the  ancestors  of  the  Earl 
of  Dunreath,  whose  deeds  and  titles  were  enumerated  on  Gothic 
monuments;  their  dust-covered  banners  waving  round  in  sullen 
dignity  to  the  rude  gale,  which  found  admittance  through  the 
broken  windows. 

The  light,  which  the  maid  held,  produced  deep  shadows,  that 
heightened  the  solemnity  of  the  place. 

‘They  are  not  here,’  said  Malvina,  casting  her  fearful  eyes 
around.  She  went  to  the  door,  which  opened  into  a thick  wood ; 
but  here  she  only  heard  the  breeze  rustling  among  the  trees; 
she  turned  from  it,  and,  sinking  upon  the  steps  of  the  altar,  gave 
way  to  an  agony  of  tears  and  lamentations.  A low  murmur 
reached  her  ear;  she  started  up;  the  chapel  door  was  gently 
pushed  open,  and  Fitzalan  entered  with  the  chaplain ; they  had 
been  watching  in  the  wood  for  the  appearance  bf  light.  Malvina 
was  supported  to  the  altar,  and  a few  minutes  made  her  the  wife 
of  Fitzalan. 

She  had  not  the  courage,  till  within  a day  or  two  previous  to 
the  regiment’s  departure  from  Scotland,  to  acquaint  the  Earl  with 
her  marriage ; the  Countess  already  knew  it,  through  the  means 
of  Malvina’s  woman,  who  was  a creature  of  her  own.  Lady 
Dunreath  exulted  at  the  prospect  of  Malvina’s  ruin ; it  at  once 
gratified  the  malevolence  of  her  soul,  and  the  avaricious  desire 
she  had  of  increasing  her  own  daughter’s  fortune ; she  had,  be- 
sides, another  reason  to  rejoice  at  it;  this  was,  the  attachment 
Lady  Augusta  had  formed  for  Fitzalan,  which  her  mother  feared 
would  have  precipitated  her  into  a step  as  imprudent  as  her  sister’s, 
had  she  not  been  beforehand  with  her. 

This  fear  the  impetuous  passions  of  Lady  Augusta  naturally 
excited.  She  really  loved  Fitzalan ; a degree  of  frantic  rage  pos- 
sessed her  at  his  marriage ; she  cursed  her  sister  in  the  bitterness 
of  her  heart,  and  joined  with  Lady  Dunreath  in  working  up  the 
Earl’s  naturally  austere  and  violent  passions  into  such  a paroxysm 
of  fury  and  resentment,  that  he  at  last  solemnly  refused  forgive- 
ness  to  Malvina,  and  bid  her  never  more  appear  in  his  presence 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


17 


jShe  now  began  to  tread  the  thorny  path  of  life : and  though 
her  guide  was  tender  and  affectionate,  nothing  could  allay  her 
anguish  for  having  involved  him  in  difficulties,  which  his  noble 
spirit  could  ill  brook  or  struggle  against.  The  first  year  of  their 
union  she  had  a son,  who  was  called  after  her  father,  Oscar 
Dunreath ; the  four  years  that  succeeded  his  birth  were  passed  in 
wretchedness  that  baffles  description.  At  the  expiration  of  this 
period  their  debts  were  so  increased,  Fitzalan  was  compelled  to 
sell  out  on  half-pay.  Lady  Malvina  now  expected  an  addition  to 
her  family:  her  situation,  she  hoped,  would  move  her  father’s 
heart,  and  resolved  to  essay  everything  which  afforded  the  small- 
est prospect  of  obtaining  comfort  for  her  husband  and  his  babes; 
she  prevailed  on  him,  therefore,  to  carry  her  to  Scotland. 

They  lodged  at  a peasant’s  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Abbey ; 
he  informed  them  the  Earl’s  infirmities  were  daily  increasing ; and 
that  Lady  Dunreath  had  just  celebrated  her  daughter’s  marriage 
with  the  Marquis  of  Roseline.  This  nobleman  had  passionately 
admired  Lady  Malvina;  an  admiration  the  Countess  always 
wished  transferred  to  her  daughter.  On  the  marriage  of  Malvina 
he  went  abroad;  his  passion  was  conquered  ere  he  returned  to 
Scotland,  and  he  disdained  not  the  overtures  made  for  his  alliance 
from  the  Abbey.  His  favorite  propensities,  avarice  and  pride, 
were  indeed  gratified  by  the  possession  of  the  Earl  of  Dunreath ’s 
sole  heiress. 

The  day  after  her  arrival  Lady  Malvina  sent  little  Oscar,  with 
the  old  peasant,  to  the  Abbey  ; Oscar  was  a perfect  cherubim  : 

The  bloom  of  opening  flowers,  unsullied  beauty, 

Softness  and  sweetest  innocence  he  wore, 

And  looked  like  nature  in  the  world’s  first  spring. 

Lady  Malvina  gave  him  a letter  for  the  Earl,  in  which,  after 
pathetically  describing  her  situation,  she  besought  him  to  let  the 
uplifted  hands  of  innocence  plead  her  cause.  The  peasant  watched 
till  the  hour  came  for  Lady  Dunreath  to  go  out  in  her  carriage,  as 
was  her  daily  custom  ; he  then  desired  to  be  conducted  to  the 
Earl,  and  was  accordingly  ushered  into  his  presence  ; he  found 
him  alone,  and  briefly  informed  him  of  his  errand.  The  Earl 
frowned  and  looked  agitated  ; but  did  not  by  any  means  express 
that  displeasure  which  the  peasant  had  expected  ; feeling  for 
himself,  indeed,  had  lately  softened  his  heart  ; he  was  unhappy  ; 
his  wife  and  daughter  had  attained  the  completion  of  their  wishes, 
and  no  longer  paid  him  the  attention  his  age  required.  He  re- 
fused, however,  to  accept  the  letter  ; little  Oscar,  who  had  been 
gazing  on  him  from  the  moment  he  entered  the  apartment,  now 
ran  forward  ; gently  stroking  his  hand,  he  smiled  in  his  face,  and 
exclaimed,  ‘ Ah  ! do  pray  take  poor  mamma’s  letter.’  The  Earl 
involuntarily  took  it  ; as  he  read,  the  muscles  of  his  face  began  to 


18  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

work,  and  a tear  dropped  from  him.  ‘ Poor  mamma  cries  too/ 
said  Oscar,  upon  whose  hand  the  tear  fell.  ‘ Why  did  your  mam* 
ma  send  you  to  me?’  said  the  Earl.  ‘Because  she  said,’  cried 
Oscar,  ‘ that  you  were  my  grandpapa — and  she  bids  me  love  you, 
and  teaches  me  every  day  to  pray  for  you.  ’ ‘ Heaven  bless  you, 

my  lovely  prattler  ! ’ exclaimed  the  Earl,  with  sudden  emotion, 
patting  his  head  as  he  spoke.  At  this  moment  Lady  Dunreath 
rushed  into  the  apartment  : one  of  her  favorites  had  followed  her, 
to  relate  the  scene  that  was  going  forward  within  it  : and  she  had 
returned,  with  all  possible  expedition,  to  counteract  any  danger- 
ous impression  that  might  be  made  upon  the  Earl’s  mind.  Rage 
inflamed  her  countenance  : the  Earl  knew  the  violence  of  her  tem- 
per ; he  was  unequal  to  contention,  and  hastily  motioned  for  the 
peasant  to  retire  with  the  child.  The  account  of  his  reception  ex- 
cited the  most  flattering  hopes  in  the  bosom  of  his  mother  : she 
counted  the  tedious  hours,  in  expectation  of  a kind  summons  to 
the  Abbey  ; but  no  such  summons  came.  The  next  morning  the 
child  was  sent  to  it ; but  the  porter  refused  him  admittance,  by  the 
express  command  of  the  Earl,  he  said.  Frightened  at  his  rude- 
ness, the  child  returned  weeping  to  his  mother,  whose  blasted  ex- 
pectations wrung  her  heart  with  agony,  and  tears  and  lamenta- 
tions broke  from  her.  The  evening  was  far  advanced,  when 
suddenly  her  features  brightened  : ‘ I will  go,  ’ cried  she,  starting 
up — ‘ I will  again  try  to  melt  his  obduracy.  Oh  ! with  what  lowli- 
ness should  a child  bend  before  an  offended  parent  ! Oh  ! with 
what  fortitude,  what  patience,  should  a wife,  a mother,  try  to  over- 
come difficulties  which  she  is  conscious  of  having  precipitated  the 
objects  of  her  tenderest  affections  into  ! ’ 

The  night  was  dark  and  tempestuous  ; she  would  not  suffer 
Fitzalan  to  attend  her  ; but  proceeded  to  the  Abbey,  leaning  on 
the  peasant’s  arm.  She  would  not  be  repulsed  at  the  door,  but 
forced  her  way  into  the  hall  : here  Lady  Dunreath  met  her,  and 
with  mingled  pride  and  cruelty,  refused  her  access  to  her  father, 
declaring  it  was  by  his  desire  she  did  so.  ‘ Let  me  see  him  but  for 
a moment,’  said  the  lovely  suppliant,  clasping  her  white  and 
emaciated  hands  together — ‘ by  all  that  is  tender  in  humanity,  I 
beseech  you  to  grant  my  request.’ 

‘ Turn  this  frantic  woman  from  the  Abbey,’  said  the  implac- 
able Lady  Dunreath,  trembling  with  passion — ‘ at  your  peril  suffer 
her  to  continue  here.  The  peace  of  your  lord  is  too  precious  to  be 
disturbed  by  her  exclamations.’ 

The  imperious  order  was  instantly  obeyed,  though,  as  Cordelia 
says,  ‘ it  was  a night  when  one  would  not  have  turned  an  enemy’s 
dog  from  the  door.’  The  rain  poured  in  torrents  ; the  sea  roared 
with  awful  violence  ; and  the  wind  roared  through  the  wood,  as 
if  it  would  tear  up  the  trees  by  tfleiA  roots.  The  peasant  charitably 


THB  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


19 


flun^  his  plaid  over  Malvina  : she  moved  mechanically  along- ; 
her  senses  appeared  quite  stupefied.  Fitzalan  watched  for  her  at 
the  door  : she  rushed  into  his  extended  arms,  and  fainted  ; it  was 
long  ere  she  showed  any  symptoms  of  returning  life.  Fitzalan 
wept  over  her  in  the  anguish  and  distraction  of  his  soul  ; and 
scarcely  could  he  forbear  execrating  the  being  who  had  sc  griev- 
ously afflicted  her  gentle  spirit  : by  degrees  she  revived  ; and,  as 
she  pressed  him  feebly  to  her  breast,  exclaimed,  ‘ The  final  stroke 
is  given — I have  been  turned  from  my  father’s  door.’ 

The  cottage  in  which  they  lodged  afforded  but  few  of  the  neces- 
saries, and  none  of  the  comforts  of  life ; such,  at  least,  as  they  had 
been  accustomed  to.  In  Malvina’s  present  situation,  Fitzalan 
dreaded  the  loss  of  her  life,  should  they  continue  in  their  present 
abode ; but  whither  could  he  take  her,  wanderer  as  he  was  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth?  At  length  the  faithful  Edwin  occurred  to 
his  recollection:  his  house,  he  was  confident,  would  afford  them 
a comfortable  asylum,  where  Lady  Malvina  would  experience  all 
that  tenderness  and  care  her  situation  demanded. 

He  immediately  set  about  procuring  a conveyance,  and  the  fol- 
lowing morning  Malvina  bid  a last  adieu  to  Scotland. 

Lady  Dunreath,  in  the  meantime,  suffered  torture:  after  she 
had  seen  Malvina  turned  from  the  Abbey,  she  returned  to  her 
apartment:  it  was  furnished  with  the  most  luxurious  elegance, 
yet  she  could  not  rest  within  it.  Conscience  already  told  her,  if 
Malvina  died,  she  must  consider  herself  her  murderer;  her  pale 
and  woe- worn  image  seemed  still  before  her ; a cold  terror  op- 
pressed her  heart,  which  the  horrors  of  the  night  augmented ; the 
tempest  shook  the  battlements  of  the  Abbey;  and  the  winds 
which  howled  through  the  galleries  seemed  like  the  last  moans 
of  some  wandering  spirit  of  the  pile,  bewailing  the  fate  of  one  of 
its  fairest  daughters.  To  cruelty  and  ingratitude  Lady  Dunreath 
had  added  deceit : her  lord  was  yielding  to  the  solicitations  of  his 
child,  when  she  counteracted  his  intentions  by  a tale  of  falsehood. 
The  visions  of  the  night  were  also  dreadful ; Malvina  appe:.red  j 
expiring  before  her,  and  the  late  Lady  Dunreath,  by  her  bedside,  ' 
reproaching  her  barbarity.  ‘ Oh,  cruel ! ’ the  ghastly  figure  seemed 
to  say,  ‘ is  it  you,  whom  I fostered  in  my  bosom,  that  have  done 
this  deed — driven  forth  my  child,  a forlorn  and  wretched  wan- 
derer ? ’ 

Oh,  conscience,  how  awful  are  thy  terrors ! thou  art  the  vice- 
gerent of  Heaven,  and  dost  anticipate  its  vengeance,  ere  the  final 
hour  of  retribution  arrives.  Guilt  may  be  triumphant,  but  never, 
never  can  be  happy : it  finds  no  shield  against  thy  stings  and 
arrows.  The  heart  thou  smitest  bleeds  in  every  pore,  and  sighj 
amid  gayety  and  splendor. 

The  unfortunate  travelers  were  welcomed  with  the  truest  ho^ 


so 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


pitality  by  the  grateful  Edwin;  he  had  married,  soon  after  his  re^ 
turn  from  America,  a young  girl,  to  whom,  from  his  earliest  youth, 
he  was  attached.  His  parents  died  soon  after  his  union,  and  the 
whole  of  their  little  patrimony  devolved  to  him.  Soothed  and 
attended  with  the  utmost  tenderness  and  respect,  Fitzalan  hoped 
Lady  Malvina  would  here  regain  her  health  and  peace:  he  in- 
! tended,  after  her  recovery,  to  endeavor  to  be  put  on  full  pay ; and 
^ trusted  he  should  prevail  on  her  to  continue  at  the  farm, 

’ At  length  the  hour  came,  in  which  she  gave  a daughter  to  his 
arms.  From  the  beginning  of  her  illness  the  people  about  her 
were  alarmed;  too  soon  was  it  proved  their  alarms  were  well 
founded : she  lived  after  the  birth  of  her  infant  but  a few  minutes, 
and  died  embracing  her  husband,  and  blessing  his  children. 

Fitzalan’s  feelings  cannot  well  be  described : they  were  at  first 
too  much  for  reason,  and  he  continued  some  time  in  perfect  stupe- 
faction. When  he  regained  his  sensibility,  his  grief  was  not  out- 
rageous ; it  was  that  deep,  still  sorrow,  which  fastens  on  the  heart, 
and  cannot  vent  itself  in  tears  or  lamentations ; he  sat  with  calm- 
ness by  the  bed,  where  the  beautiful  remains  of  Malvina  lay ; he 
gazed  without  shrinking  on  her  pale  face,  which  death,  as  if  in 
pity  to  his  feelings,  had  not  disfigured;  he  kissed  her  cold  lips, 
continually  exclaiming,  ‘ Oh!  had  we  never  met,  she  might  still 
have  been  living.’  His  language  was  something  like  that  of  a 
poet  of  her  own  country : 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tippdd  flower, 

I met  thee  in  a luckless  hour. 

It  was  when  he  saw  them  about  removing  her  that  all  the  tem- 
pest of  his  grief  broke  forth  Oh ! how  impossible  to  describe  the 
anguish  of  the  poor  widower’s  heart  when  he  returned  from  seeing 
his  Malvina  laid  in  her  last  receptacle:  he  shut  himself  up  in  the 
room  where  she  had  expired,  and  ordered  no  one  to  approach  him; 
he  threw  himself  upon  the  bed ; he  laid  his  cheek  upon  her  pillow, 
he  grasped  it  to  his  bosom,  he  wetted  it  with  tears,  because  she 
had'breathed  upon  it.  Oh,  how  still,  how  dreary,  how  desolate, 
did  all  appear  around  him ! ’ ‘ And  shall  this  desolation  never 

more  be  enlightened,’  he  exclaimed,  ‘by  the  soft  music  of  Mal- 
vina’s voice?  Shall  these  eyes  never  more  be  cheered  by  behold- 
ing her  angelic  face?  ’ Exhausted  by  his  feelings,  he  sunk  into  a 
slumber:  he  dreamt  of  Malvina,  and  thought  she  lay  beside  him: 
he  awoke  with  sudden  ecstasy,  and  under  the  strong  impression 
of  the  dream,  stretched  out  his  arms  to  enfold  her.  Alas ! all  was 
empty  void — he  started  up — he  groaned  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
soul — he  traversed  the  room  with  a distracted  pace — he  sat  him 
down  in  a little  window  from  whence  he  could  view  the  spire  of 
the  church  (now  glistening  in  the  moonbeams)  by  which  she  was 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


21 


interred.  * Deep,  still,  and  profound,’  cried  he,  * is  now  the  sleep 
of  my  Malvina — the  voice  of  love  cannot  awake  her  from  it ; nor 
does  she  now  dream  of  her  midnight  mourner.’ 

The  cold  breeze  of  night  blew  upon  his  forehead,  but  he  heeded 
it  not;  his  whole  soul  was  full  of  Malvina,  whom  torturing  fancy 
presented  to  his  view,  in  the  habiliments  of  the  grave.  ‘ And  is 
this  emaciated  form,  this  pale  face,’  he  exclaimed,  as  if  he  had 
really  seen  her,  ‘ all  that  remain  of  elegance  and  beauty,  once  un- 
equaled ! ’ 

A native  sense  of  religion  alone  checked  the  transports  of  his 
grief ; that  sweet,  that  sacred  power,  which  pours  balm  upon  the 
wounds  of  sorrow,  and  saves  its  children  from  despair ; that  power 
whispered  to  his  heart,  a patient  submission  to  the  will  of  Heaven 
was  the  surest  means  he  could  obtain  of  again  rejoining  his  Mal- 
vina. 

She  was  interred  in  the  village  churchyard:  at  the  head  of  her 
grave  a stone  was  placed,  on  which  was  rudely  cut: 

MALVINA  FITZALAN, 

ALIKE  LOVELY  AND  UNFORTUNATE. 

Fitzalan  would  not  permit  her  empty  title  to  be  on  it : * She  is 
buried,  ’ he  said,  ‘ as  the  wife  of  a wretched  soldier,  not  as  the 
daughter  of  a wealthy  peer.’ 

She  had  requested  her  infant  might  be  called  after  her  own 
mother;  her  request  was  sacred  to  Fitzalan,  and  it  was  baptized  by 
the  united  names  of  Amanda  Malvina.  Mrs.  Edwin  was  then 
nursing  her  first  girl ; but  she  sent  it  out,  and  took  the  infant  of 
Fitzalan  in  its  place  to  her  bosom. 

The  money  which  Fitzalan  had  procured  by  disposing  of  his 
commission  was  now  nearly  exhausted ; but  his  mind  was  too  en- 
ervated to  allow  him  to  think  of  any  project  for  future  support. 
Lady  Malvina  was  deceased  two  months,  when  a nobleman  came 
into  the  neighborhood,  with  whom  Fitzalan  had  once  been  inti- 
mately acquainted:  the  acquaintance  was  now  renewed;  and 
Fitzalan’s  appearance,  with  the  little  history  of  his  misfortunes, 
so  much  affected  and  interested  his  friend,  that,  without  solicita- 
tion, he  procured  him  a company  in  a regiment,  then  stationed  in 
England.  Thus  did  Fitzalan  again  enter  into  active  life;  but  his 
spirits  were  broken,  and  his  constitution  injured.  Four  years  he 
continued  in  the  army;  when,  pining  to  have  his  children  (all 
that  now  remained  of  a woman  he  adored)  under  his  own  care,  he 
obtained,  through  the  interest  of  his  friend,  leave  to  sell  out. 
Oscar  was  then  eight,  and  Amanda  four ; the  delighted  father,  as 
he  held  them  to  his  heart,  wept  over  them  tears  of  mingled  pain 
and  pleasure. 

He  had  seen  in  Devonshire,  where  he  was  quartered  for  some 


22 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBBT, 


time,  a little  romantic  solitnde,  quite  adapted  to  his  taste  anA 
finances;  he  proposed  for  it,  and  soon  became  its  proprietor. 
Hither  he  carried  his  children,  much  against  the  inclinations  of 
the  Edwins,  who  loved  them  as  their  own : two  excellent  schools 
in  the  neighborhood  gave  them  the  usual  advantages  of  genteel 
education ; but  as  they  were  only  day  scholars,  the  improvement, 
or  rather  forming  of  their  morals,  was  the  pleasing  task  of  their 
father.  To  his  assiduous  care  too  they  were  indebted  for  the  rapid 
progress  they  made  in  their  studies,  and  for  the  graceful  simplic- 
ity of  their  manners : they  rewarded  his  care,  and  grew  up  as 
amiable  and  lovely  as  his  fondest  wishes  could  desire.  As  Oscar 
advanced  in  life,  his  father  began  to  experience  new  cares;  for  he 
had  not  the  power  of  putting  him  in  the  way  of  making  any  pro- 
vision for  himself.  A military  life  was  what  Oscar  appeared 
anxious  for:  he  had  early  conceived  a predilection  for  it,  from 
hearing  his  father  speak  of  the  services  he  had  seen ; but  though 
he  possessed  quite  the  spirit  of  a hero,  he  had  the  truest  tender- 
ness, the  most  engaging  softness  of  disposition ; his  temper  was, 
indeed,  at  once  mild,  artless,  and  affectionate.  He  was  about 
eighteen,  when  the  proprietor  of  the  estate  on  which  his  father 
held  his  farm  died,  and  his  heir,  a colonel  in  the  army,  im- 
mediately came  down  from  London  to  take  formal  possession:  he 
soon  became  acquainted  with  Fitzalan,  who,  in  the  course  of  con- 
versation, one  day  expressed  the  anxiety  he  suffered  on  his  son’s 
account.  The  colonel  said  he  was  a fine  youth,  and  it  was  a pity 
he  was  not  provided  for.  He  left  Devonshire,  however,  shortly 
after  this,  without  appearing  in  the  least  interested  about  him. 

Fitzalan’s  heart  was  oppressed  with  anxiety ; he  could  not  pur- 
chase for  his  son,  without  depriving  himself  of  support.  With 
the  nobleman  who  had  formerly  served  him  so  essentially,  he  had 
kept  up  no  intercourse  since  he  quitted  the  army ; but  he  fre- 
quently heard  of  him,  and  was  told  he  had  become  quite  a man  of 
the  world,  which  was  an  implication  of  his  having  lost  all  feel- 
ing: an  application  to  him,  therefore,  he  feared  would  be  unavail- 
ing, and  he  felt  too  proud  to  subject  himself  to  a repulse. 

From,  this  disquietude  he  was  unexpectedly  relieved  by  a letter 
from  the  Earl  of  Cherbury,  his  yet  kind  friend,  informing  him  he 
had  procured  an  ensigncy  for  Oscar,  in  Colonel  Belgrave’s  regi- 
ment, which  he  considered  a very  fortunate  circumstance,  as  the 
colonel,  he  was  confident,  from  personally  knowing  the  young 
gentleman,  would  render  him  every  service  in  his  power.  The 
Earl  chided  Fitzalan  for  never  having  kept  up  a correspondence 
with  him,  assured  him  he  had  never  forgotten  the  friendship  of 
their  earlier  years  : and  that  he  had  gladly  seized  the  first  oppor- 
tunity which  offered,  of  serving  him  in  the  person  of  his  son; 
which  opportunity  he  was  indebted  to  Colonel  Belgrave  for. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


2a 


Fitzalan’s  soul  was  filled  with  gratitude  and  rapture  ; he  imtne« 
diately  wrote  to  the  Earl,  and  the  colonel,  in  terms  expressive  of 
his  feelings.  Colonel  Belgrave  received  his  thanks  as  if  he  had 
really  deserved  them  ; but  this  was  not  by  any  means  the  case  : 
he  was  a man  devoid  of  sensibility,  and  had  never  once  thought  of 
serving  Fitzalan  or  his  son  ; his  mentioning  them  was  merely  ac- 
cidental. 

In  a large  company,  of  which  the  Earl  of  Cherbury  was  one, 
the  discourse  happened  to  turn  on  the  Dunreath  family,  and  by 
degrees  led  to  Fitzalan,  who  was  severely  blamed  and  pitied  for 
his  connection  with  it  ; the  subject  was,  in  the  opinion  of  Colonel 
Belgrave,  so  apropos,  he  could  not  forbear  describing  his  present 
situation,  and  inquietude  about  his  son,  who,  he  said  he  fancied, 
must,  like  a second  Cincinnatus,  take  the  plowshare  instead  of 
the  sword. 

Lord  Cherbury  lost  no  part  of  his  discourse  ; though  immersed 
in  politics,  and  other  intricate  concerns,  he  yet  retained,  and  was 
ready  to  obey,  the  dictates  of  humanity,  particularly  when  they 
did  not  interfere  with  his  own  interests  ; he  tliarefore  directly  con- 
ceived the  design  of  serving  his  old  friend. 

Oscar  soon  quitted  Devonshire  after  his  appointment,  and 
brought  a letter  from  his  father  to  the  colonel,  in  which  he  was 
strongly  recommended  to  his  protection  as  one  unskilled  in  the 
ways  of  men. 

And  now  all  Fitzalan’s  care  devolved  upon  Amanda  ; and  most 
amply  did  she  recompense  it.  To  the  improvement  of  her  genius, 
the  cultivation  of.  her  talents,  the  promotion  of  her  father’s  hap- 
piness seemed  her  first  incentive  ; without  him  no  amusement 
was  enjoyed,  without  him  no  study  entered  upon  ; he  was  her 
friend,  guardian,  and  protector  ; and  no  language  can  express,  no 
heart  (except  a paternal  one)  conceive,  the  rapture  he  felt,  at  see 
ing  a creature  grow  under 

his  forming  hand. 

So  fair 

That  what  seemed  fair  in  all  the  world,  seemed  now 
Mean,  or  in  her  contained. 

Some  years  had  elapsed  since  Oscar’s  departure,  ere  Colonel 
Belgrave  returned  into  their  neighborhood  ; he  came  soon  after 
his  nuptials  had  been  celebrated  in  Ireland,  with  a lady  of  that 
country,  whom  Oscar’s  letters  described  as  possessing  every  mental 
and  personal  charm  which  could  please  or  captivate  the  heart. 
^Jolonel  Belgrave  came  unaccompanied  by  his  fair  bride. 
Fitzalan,  who  believed  him  his  benefactor,  and  consequently  re^ 
garded  him  as  a friend  (still  thinking  it  was  through  his  means 
Lord  Cherbury  had  served  him),  immediately  waited  upon  him, 
and  invited  him  to  his  house.  The  invitation,  after  some  tim^ 


84 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


was  accepted  ; but  had  he  imagined  what  an  attraction  the  house 
contained,  he  would  not  have  long  hesitated  about  entering  it  : 
he  was  a man,  indeed,  of  the  most  depraved  principles  ; and  an 
object  he  admired,  no  tie  or  situation,  however  sacred,  could 
guard  from  his  pursuit. 

Amanda  was  too  much  a child,  when  he  was  last  in  the  coun- 
try, to  attract  his  observation  ; he  had,  therefore,  no  idea  that  the 
blossom  he  then  so  carelessly  overlooked,  had  since  expanded  into 
such  beauty.  How  great,  then,  was  his  rapture  and  surprise, 
when  Fitzalan  led  into  the  room  where  he  had  received  him,  a tall, 
elegantly  formed  girl,  whose  rosy  cheeks  were  dimpled  with  the 
softest  smile  of  complacence,  and  whose  fine  blue  eyes  beamed 
with  modesty  and  gratitude  upon  him  ! He  instantly  marked  her 
for  his  prey  ; and  blessed  his  lucky  stars  which  had  inspired 
Fitzalan  with  the  idea  of  his  being  his  benefactor,  since  that 
would  give  him  an  easier  access  to  the  house  than  he  could 
otherwise  have  hoped  for. 

From  this  time  he  became  almost  an  inmate  of  it,  except  when 
he  chose  to  contriv,e  little  parties  at  his  own  for  Amanda.  He 
took  every  opportunity  that  offered,  without  observation,  to  try 
to  ingratiate  himself  in  her  favor  : those  opportunities  the  unsus- 
pecting temper  of  Fitzalan  allowed  to  be  frequent — he  would  as 
soon  have  trusted  Amanda  to  the  care  of  Belgrave,  as  to  that  of 
her  brother  ; and  never,  therefore,  prevented  her  walking  out 
with  him,  when  he  desired  it,  or  receiving  him  in  the  morning 
while  he  himself  was  absent  about  the  affairs  of  his  farm — de- 
lighted to  think  the  conversation  or  talents  of  his  daughter  (for 
Amanda  frequently  sung  and  played  for  the  colonel)  could  con- 
tribute to  the  amusement  of  his  friend.  Amanda  innocently  in- 
creased his  flame  by  the  attention  she  paid,  which  she  considered 
but  a just  tribute  of  gratitude  for  his  services  : she  delighted  in 
talking  to  him  of  her  dear  Oscar,  and  often  mentioned  his  lady  ; 
but  was  surprised  to  find  he  always  waived  the  latter  subject. 

Belgrave  could  not  long  restrain  the  impetuosity  of  his  pas- 
sions : the  situation  of  Fitzalan  (which  he  knew  to  be  a distressed 
one)  would,  he  fancied,  forward  his  designs  on  his  daughter  ; 
and  what  those  designs  were,  he,  by  degrees,  in  a retired  walk  one 
day,  unfolded  to  Amanda.  At  first  she  did  not  perfectly  under- 
stand him  ; but  when,  with  increased  audacity,  he  explained  him- 
self more  fully,  horror,  indignation,  and  surprise  took  possession 
of  her  breast;  and,  yielding  to  these  feelings,  she  turned  and  fled  to 
the  house,  as  if  from  a monster.  Belgrave  was  provoked  and  mor- 
tified ; the  softness  of  her  manners  had  tempted  him  to  believe  he  was 
not  indifferent  to  her,  and  that  she  would  prove  an  easy  conquest. 

Poor  Amanda  would  not  appear  in  the  presence  of  her  father, 
till  she  had,  in  some  degree,  regained  composure,  as  she  feared 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


25 


the  smallest  intimation  of  the  affair  might  occasion  fatal  conse^ 
qnences.  As  she  sat  with  him,  a letter  was  brought  her  ; she 
could  not  think  Belgrave  would  have  the  effrontery  to  write,  and 
opened  it,  supposing  it  came  from  some  acquaintance  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. How  great  was  the  shock  she  sustained,  on  finding  it 
from  him  ! Having  thrown  off  the  mask,  he  determined  no  long- 
er to  assume  any  disguise.  Her  paleness  and  confusion  alarmed 
her  father,  and  he  instantly  demanded  the  cause  of  her  agitation. 

She  found  longer  concealment  was  impossible  ; and,  throwing 
herself  at  her  father’s  feet,  besought  him,  as  she  put  the  letter 
into  his  hands,  to  restrain  his  passion.  When  he  perused  it,  he 
raised  her  up,  and  commanded  her,  as  she  valued  his  love  or  hap- 
piness, to  inform  him  of  every  particular  relative  to  the  insult  she 
had  received.  She  obeyed,  though  terrified  to  behold  her  father 
trembling  with  emotion.  When  she  concluded,  he  tenderly  em- 
braced her  ; and,  bidding  her  confine  herself  to  the  house,  rose, 
and  took  down  his  hat.  It  was  easy  to  guess  whither  he  was  going  ; 
her  terror  increased  ; and,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  she  be- 
sought him  not  to  risk  his  safety.  He  commanded  her  silence, 
with  a sternness  never  before  assumed.  His  manner  awed  her  ; 
but,  when  she  saw  him  leaving  the  room,  her  feelings  could  no 
longer  be  controlled — she  rushed  after  him,  and  flinging  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  fainted  on  it.  In  this  situation  the  unhappy 
father  was  compelled  to  leave  her  to  the  care  of  a maid,  lest  her 
pathetic  remonstrances  should  delay  the  vengeance  he  resolved 
to  take  on  a wretch  who  had  meditated  a deed  of  such  atrocity 
against  his  peace  : but  Belgrave  was  not  to  be  found. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  Fitzalan  returned  to  his  half-distracted 
daughter  ere  a letter  was  brought  him  from  the  wretch,  in  which 
he  made  the  most  degrading  proposals  ; and  bade  Fitzalan  beware 
how  he  answered  them,  as  his  situation  had  put  him  entirely  into 
his  power.  This  was  a fatal  truth  : Fitzalan  had  been  tempted 
to  make  a large  addition  to  his  farm,  from  an  idea  of  turning  the 
little  money  he  possessed  to  advantage : but  he  was  more  ignorant 
of  agriculture  than  he  had  imagined  ; and  this  ignorance,  joined 
to  his  own  integrity  of  heart,  rendered  him  the  dupe  of  some 
designing  wretches  in  his  neighborhood ; his  whole  stock  dwin- 
dled away  in  unprofitable  experiments,  and  he  was  now  considera- 
bly in  arrears  with  Belgrave.  The  ungenerous  advantage  he 
strove  to  take  of  his  situation,  increased,  if  possible,  his  indigna- 
tion ; and  again  he  sought  him,  but  still  without  success. 

Belgrave  soon  found  no  temptation  of  prosperity  would  pre- 
vail on  the  father  or  daughter  to  accede  to  his  wishes  ; he  there- 
fore resolved  to  try  whether  the  pressure  of  adversity  would  ren- 
der them  more  complying,  and  left  the  country,  having  first  or* 
dered  his  steward  to  proceed  directly  against  Fitzalan. 


26 


THE  CHILHKEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


The  consequence  of  this  order  was  an  immediate  execution  on 
his  effects  ; and,  but  for  the  assistance  of  a good-natured  farmer, 
he  would  have  been  arrested.  By  his  means,  and  under  favor  of 
night,  he  and  Amanda  set  out  for  London  ; they  arrived  there  in 
safety,  and  retired  to  obscure  lodgings.  In  this  hour  of  distress, 
Fitzalan  conquered  all  false  pride,  and  wrote  to  Lord  Cherbury, 
entreating  him  to  procure  some  employment  which  would  relieve 
his  present  distressing  situation.  He  cautiously  concealed  every- 
thing relative  to  Belgrave— he  could  not  bear  that  it  should  be 
known  that  he  had  ever  been  degraded  by  his  infamous  proposals. 
Oscar’s  safety,  too,  he  knew  depended  on  his  secrecy  ; as  he  was 
well  convinced  no  idea  of  danger,  or  elevation  of  rank,  would  se- 
cure the  wretch  from  his  fury,  who  had  meditated  so  great  an  in- 
jury against  his  sister. 

He  had  the  mortification  of  having  the  letter  he  sent  to  Lord 
Cherbury  returned,  as  his  lordship  was  then  absent  from  town  ; 
nor  was  he  expected  for  some  months,  having  gone  on  an  excursion 
of  pleasure  to  France.  Some  of  these  months  had  lingered  away 
in  all  the  horrors  of  anxiety  and  distress,  when  Fitzalan  formed 
the  resolution  of  sending  x\manda  into  W ales,  as  her  health  had 
considerably  suffered  from  the  complicated  uneasiness  and  terror 
she  experienced  on  her  own  and  her  father’s  account. 

Belgrave  had  traced  the  fugitives ; and  though  Fitzalan  was 
guarded  against  all  the  stratagems  he  used  to  have  him  arrested, 
he  found  means  to  have  letters  conveyed  to  Amanda,  full  of  base 
solicitations  and  insolent  declarations,  that  the  rigor  he  treated 
her  father  with  was  quite  against  his  feelings,  and  should  in- 
stantly be  withdrawn,  if  she  acceded  to  the  proposals  he  made  to 
her. 

But  though  Fitzalan  had  determined  to  send  Amanda  into 
Wales,  with  whom  could  he  trust  his  heart’s  best  treasure  ? At 
last  the  son  of  the  worthy  farmer  who  had  assisted  him  in  his 
journey  to  London,  occurred  to  his  remembrance;  he  came  often 
to  town,  and  always  called  on  Fitzalan.  The  young  man,  the 
moment  it  was  proposed,  expressed  the  greatest  readiness  to  at- 
tend Miss  Fitzalan.  As  every  precaution  was  necessary,  her 
father  made  her  take  the  name  of  Dunford,  and  travel  in  the  mail- 
coach,  for  the  greater  security.  He  divided  the  contents  of  his 
purse  with  her ; and,  recommending  this  lovely  and  most  beloved 
child  to  the  protection  of  Heaven,  saw  her  depart,  with  mingled 
pain  and  pleasure ; promising  to  give  her  the  earliest  intelligence 
of  Lord  Cherbury’s  arrival  in  town,  which,  he  supposed,  would 
fix  his  future  destiny.  Previous  to  her  departure,  he  wrote  to  the 
Edwins,  informing  them  of  her  intended  visit,  and  also  her  change 
of  name  for  the  present.  This  latter  circumstance,  which  was 
jaot  satisfactorily  accounted  for,  excited  their  warmest  curiosity; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


27 


a id  not  thinking*  it  proper  to  ask  Amanda  to  gratify  it,  they,  to 
use  their  own  words,  sihed  her  companion,  who  hesitated  not  to 
inform  them  of  the  indignities  she  had  suffered  from  Colonel 
Belgrave,  which  were  well  known  about  his  neighborhood. 

CHAPTER  III.  < 

Thy  grave  shall  with  fresh  flowers  be  dressed, 

And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast ; 

There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  bestow, 

There  the  first  roi-es  of  the  year  shall  blow.— Pope. 

A GENfLE  noise  in  her  chamber  roused  Amanda  from  a light, 
refreshing  slumber,  and  she  beheld  her  nurse  standing  by  her 
bedside  with  a bowl  of  goat’s  whey.  Amanda  took  the  salubrious 
draught  with  a smile,  and  instantly  starting  up,  was  dressed  in  a 
few  minutes.  She  felt  more  composed  than  she  had  done  for 
some  time  past ; the  transition  from  a narrow  dark  street  to  a fine 
open  country  would  have  excited  a lively  transport  in  her  mind, 
but  for  the  idea  of  her  father  stiJl  remaining  in  the  gloomy  situ- 
ation she  had  quitted. 

On  going  out,  she  found  the  family  all  busily  employed; 
Edwin  and  his  sons  were  mowing  in  a meadow  near  the  house, 
the  nurse  was  churning,  Ellen  washing  the  milk  pails  by  th6 
stream  in  the  valley,  and  Betsey  turning  a cake  for  her  breakfast 
The  tea  table  was  laid  by  a window,  through  which  a woodbinw 
crept,  diffusing  a delightful  fragrance;  the  bees  feasted  on  itfs 
sweetness,  and  the  gaudy  butterflies  fluttered  around  it;  the 
refulgent  sun  gladdened  the  face  of  nature;  the  morning  breeze 
tempered  its  heat,  and  bore  upon  its  dewy  wings  the  sweets  of 
opening  flowers;  birds  caroled  their  matins  almost  on  every 
spray ; and  scattered  peasants,  busied  in  their  various  labors,  en- 
livened the  extensive  prospect. 

Amanda  was  delighted  with  all  she  saw,  and  wrote  to  her  father 
that  his  presence  was  only  wanting  to  complete  her  pleasure. 
The  young  man  who  had  attended  her,  on  receiving  her  letter,  set 
out  for  the  village,  from  whence  he  was  to  return  in  a stagecoach 
to  London. 

The  morning  was  passed  by  Amanda  in  arranging  her  little 
affairs,  walking  about  the  cottage,  and  conversing  with  the  nurse 
relative  to  past  times  and  present  avocations.  When  the  hour 
for  dinner  came,  by  her  desire  it  was  carried  out  into  the  recess  in 
the  garden,  where  the  balmy  air,  the  lovely  scene  which  sur- 
rounded her,  rendered  it  doubly  delicious. 

In  the  evening  §he  asked  Ellen  to  take  a walk  with  her,  to 
which  she  joyfully  consented.  ‘And  pray.  Miss,’  said  Ellen, 
after  she  had  smartened  herself  up  with  a cleau  wnite  apron,  her 


28 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Sunday  cap,  and  a hat  loaded  with  poppy-colored  ribbons,  smil 
ing  as  she  spoke  at  the  pretty  image  her  glass  reflected,  ‘ where 
shall  we  go?’  ‘To  the  churchyard,’  replied  Amanda.  ‘O 
Lord,  Miss,  won’t  that  be  rather  a dismal  place  to  go  to?  ’ ‘ In- 

dulge me,  my  dear  Ellen,’  said  Amanda,  ‘ in  showing  me  the  way 
thither;  there  is  one  spot  in  it  my  heart  wants  to  visit.’ 

The  churchyard  lay  at  the  entrance  of  the  little  village;  the 
church  was  a small  structure,  whose  Gothic  appearance  proclaimed 
its  ancient  date ; it  was  rendered  more  venerable  by  the  lofty  elms^ 
and  yews  which  surrounded  it,  apparetitly  coeval  with  itself,  and 
which  cast  dark  shades  upon  the  spots  where  the  ‘ rude  forefathers 
of  the  hamlet  slept,’  which. 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implored  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh. 

And  it  was  a tribute  Amanda  paid,  as  she  proceeded  to  the  grave 
of  Lady  Malvina,  which  Ellen  pointed  out;  it  was  overgrown 
with  grass,  and  the  flag,  which  bore  her  name,  green  from  time 
and  damp.  Amanda  involuntarily  sunk  on  her  knees  and  kissed 
the  hallowed  earth ; her  eyes  caught  the  melancholy  inscription. 

‘ Sweet  spirit,’ she  said,  ‘Heaven  now  rewards  your  sufferings. 
Oh,  my  mother ! if  departed  spirits  are  ever  allowed  to  review  this 
world,  with  love  ineffable  you  may  now  be  regarding  your  child. 
Oh,  if  she  is  doomed  to  tread  a path  as  thorny  as  the  one  you 
trod,  may  the  same  sweetness  and  patience  that  distinguished  you 
support  her  through  it ! with  the  same  pious  awe,  the  same  meek 
submission,  may  she  bow  to  the  designations  of  her  Creator!  ’ 

The  affecting  apostrophe  drew  tears  from  the  tender  hearted 
Ellen,  who  besought  her  not  to  continue  longer  in  such  a dismal 
place.  Amanda  now  arose  weeping — her  spirits  were  entirely 
overcome;  the  busy  objects  of  day  had  amused  her  mind,  and 
prevented  it  from  meditating  on  its  sorrow;  but,  in  the  calm 
solitude  of  the  evening,  they  gradually  revived  in  her  remem- 
brance. Her  father’s  ill-health,  she  feared,  would  increase  for 
want  of  her  tender  attentions ; and  when  she  thought  of  his  distress, 
his  confinement,  his  dejection,  she  felt  agony  at  their  separation. 

Her  melancholy  was  noticed  at  the  cottage.  Ellen  informed 
the  nurse  of  the  dismal  walk  they  had  taken,  which  at  once  ac- 
counted for  it ; and  the  good  woman  exerted  herself  to  enliven 
her  dear  child,  but  Amanda,  though  she  faintly  smiled,  was  not 
to  be  cheered,  and  soon  retired  to  bed — pale,  languid,  and  un- 
happy. 

Returning  light,  in  some  degree,  dispelled  her  melancholy ; she 
felt,  however,  for  the  first  time,  that  her  hours  would  hang  heavy 
on  her  hands,  deprived  as  she  was  of  those  delightful  resources 
which  had  hitherto  diversified  them.  To  pass  her  time  in  listless 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


29 


inaction,  or  idle  saunters  about  the  house,  was  insupportable,  and 
besides,  she  found  her  presence  in  the  morning  was  a restraint  on 
her  humble  friends,  who  did  not  deem  it  good  manners  to  work 
before  her;  and  to  them,  who,  like  the  bees,  were  obliged  to  lay  up 
their  wintry  hoard  in  summer,  the  loss  of  time  was  irreparable. 

In  the  distraction  of  her  father’s  affairs,  she  had  lost  her  books, 
implements  for  drawing,  and  musical  instruments;  and  in  the 
cottage  she  could  only  find  a Bible,  a family  prayer  book,  and  a 
torn  volume  of  old  ballads. 

‘Tear  heart,  now  I think  on’t,’  said  the  nurse,  ‘ you  may  go  to 
the  library  at  Tudor  Hall,  where  there  are  books  enough  to  keep 
you  a-going,  if  you  lived  to  the  age  of  Methusalem  himself ; and 
very  pretty  reading  to  be  sure  among  them,  or  our  Parson  Howel 
would  not  have  been  going  there  as  often  as  he  did  to  study,  till 
he  got  a library  of  his  own.  The  family  are  all  away ; and  as  the 
door  is  open  every  fine  day  to  air  the  room,  you  will  not  be  noticed 
by  nopoty  going  into  it,  though,  for  that  matter,  poor  old  Mrs. 
Abergwilly  would  make  you  welcome  enough,  if  you  promised  to 
take  none  of  the  books  away  with  you.  But  as  I know  you  to  be 
a little  bashful  or  so,  I will,  if  you  choose,  step  over  and  ask  her 
leave  for  you  to  go.’  ‘If  you  please,’  said  Amanda;  ‘I  should 
not  like  to  go  without  it.’  ‘ Well,  I shan’t  be  long,’  continued  the 
nurse,  ‘and  Mien  shall  show  you  the  way  to-day;  it  will  be  a 
pretty  pit  of  a walk  for  you  to  take  every  morning.’ 

The  nurse  was  as  good  as  her  word ; she  returned  soon,  with 
Mrs.  Abergwilly’s  permission  for  Amanda  to  read  in  the  library 
whenever  she  pleased.  In  consequence  of  this,  she  immediately 
proceeded  to  the  Hall,  whose  white  turrets  were  seen  from  the 
cottage:  it  was  a large  and  antique  building,  embosomed  in  a 
grove ; the  library  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and  entered  by  a 
spacious  folding-door.  As  soon  as  she  had  reached  it,  Ellen  left 
her,  and  returned  to  the  cottage ; and  Amanda  began  with  pleas- 
ure to  examine  the  apartment,  whose  elegance  and  simplicity 
struck  her  with  immediate  admiration. 

On  one  side  was  a row  of  large  windows,  arched  quite  in  the 
Gothic  style ; opposite  to  them  were  corresponding  arches,  in  whose 
recesses  the  bookcases  were  placed,  round  these  arches  were  fes- 
toons of  laurel,  elegantly  executed  in  stucco  work;  and  above 
them  medallions  of  some  of  the  most  celebrated  poets;  the  chim- 
ney-piece, of  the  finest  Italian  marble,  was  beautifully  inlaid  and 
ornamented;  the  paintings  on  the  ceiling  were  all  highly  finished 
and  of  the  allegorical  kind;  and  it  was  difficult  to  determine 
whether  the  taste  that  designed,  or  the  hand  that  executed  them, 
merited  most  praise ; upon  marble  pedestals  stood  a celestial  and 
terrestrial  globe,  and  one  recess  was  entirely  hung  with  maps.  It 
was  a room,  from  its  situation  and  appearance,  peculiarly  adapted 


30 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


for  study  and  contemplation ; all  around  was  solitude  and  silence, 
save  the  rustlinr^  of  the  trees,  whose  dark  foliage  cast  a solemn 
shade  upon  the  windows. 

Opposite  the  entrance  was  another  folding-door,  which  being  a 
little  opened,  Amanda  could  not  resist  the  desire  she  felt  of  seeing 
what  was  beyond  it.  She  entered  a large  vaulted  apartment,  i 
whose  airy  lightness  formed  a pleasing  contrast  to  the  gloomy  one 
she  had  left.  The  manner  in  which  it  was  fitted  up,  and  the  I 
musical  instruments,  declared  this  to  be  a music-room.  It  was 
hung  with  pale  green  damask,  spotted  with  silver,  and  bordered 
with  festoons  of  roses,  inter  ningled  with  light  silver  sprays ; the 
seats  corresponded  to  the  ha'ngings ; the  tables  were  of  fine  inlaid 
wood ; and  superb  lusters  were  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  which 
represented,  in  a masterly  style,  scenes  from  some  of  the  pastoral 
poets;  the  orchestra,  about  the  center  of  the  room,  was  enclosed 
with  a light  balustrading  of  white  marble,  elevated  by  a few  steps. 

The  windows  of  this  room  commanded  a pleasing  prospect  of  a . 
deep  romantic  dale;  the  hills  through  which  it  wound,  displaying 
a beautiful  diversity  of  woody  scenery,  interspersed  with  green  , 
pastures  and  barren  points  of  rocks : a fine  fall  of  water  fell  from 
one  of  the  highest  of  the  hills,  which,  broken  by  intervening  roots  t 
and  branches  of  trees,  ran  a hundred  different  ways,  sparkling  in  i 
the  sunbeams  as  they  emerged  from  the  shade.  ! 

Amanda  stood  long  at  a window,  enjoying  this  delightful  pros-  ’ 
pect,  and  admiring  the  taste  which  had  chosen  this  room  for 
amusement ; thus  at  once  gratifying  the  eye  and  ear.  On  looking 
over  the  instruments,  she  saw  a pianoforte  unlocked ; she  gently 
i^ised  the  lid,  and  touching  the  keys,  found  them  in  tolerable  ( 
order.  Amanda  adored  music;  her  genius  for  it  was  great,  and  ! 
had  received  every  advantage  her  father  could  possibly  give  it;  \ 
in  cultivating  it  he  had  laid  up  a fund  of  delight  for  himself,  for  | 
* his  soul  was  a stream  that  flowed  at  pleasant  sounds.’ 

Amanda  could  not  resist  the  present  opportunity  of  gratifying 
her  favorite  inclination.  ‘ Harmony  and  I,’  cried  she,  ‘ have  long 
been  strangers  to  each  other.’  She  sat  down  and  played  a little 
tender  air:  those  her  father  loved  recurred  to  her  recollection, 
and  she  played  a few  of  them  with  even  more  than  usual  elegance. 
‘Ah,  dear  and  valued  object,’  she  mournfully  sighed,  ‘ why  are 
you  not  here  to  share  my  pleasure?  ’ She  wiped  away  a starting 
tear  of  tender  remembrance,  and  began  a simple  air: 

Ah,  gentle  Hope,  shall  I no  more 
Thy  cheerful  influence  share? 

Oh,  must  I still  thy  loss  deplore. 

And  be  the  slave  of  car''  ? 

The  gloom  which  now  obscures  my  days 
At  thy  appronch  would  fly. 

And  glowing  fancy  would  display 
A bright  unclouded  ekyl 


miE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABDflY> 


31 


Niffht’e  dreary  shadows  fleet  away 
Before  the  orient  beam; 

So  sorrow  melts  before  thy  sway,  r 
Thou  nymph  of  cheerful  mien. , 

Ah!  seek  again  my  lonely  breast, 

Dislodge  each  painful  fear  ; 

Be  once  again  my  heavenly  guest. 

And  stay  each  falling  tear. 

Amanda  saw  a number  of  music-books  lying*  about;  she  ex- 
amined a few,  and  found  they  contained  compositions  of  some  of 
the  most  eminent  masters.  They^tempted  her  to  continue  a little 
longer  at  the  instrument:  when  she  rose  from  it,  she  returned  to 
the  library,  and  began  looking  over  the  books,  which  she  found 
were  a collection  of  the  best  that  past  or  present  times  had  pro- 
duced. She  soon  selected  one  for  perusal,  and  seated  herself  in 
the  recess  of  a window,  that  she  might  enjoy  the  cool  breeze^ 
which  sighed  among  the  trees.  Here,  delighted  with  her  em- 
ployment, she  forgot  the  progress  of  time ; nor  thought  of  moving^ 
till  Ellen  appeared  with  a request  from  the  nurse  for  her  imme- 
diate return,  as  her  dinner  was  ready,  and  she  was  uneasy  at  her 
fasting  so  long.  Amanda  did  not  hesitate  to  comply  with  the  re- 
quest ; but  she  resolved  henceforth  to  be  a constant  visitor  to  the 
hall,  which  contained  such  pleasing  sources  of  amusement:  she 
also  settled  in  her  own  mind  often  to  ramble  amid  its  shades, 
which  were  perfectly  adapted  to  her  taste.  These  resolutions  she 
put  in  practice ; and  a week  passed  in  this  manner,  during  which 
she  heard  from  her  father,  who  informed  her  that,  suspecting  the 
woman  with  whom  he  lodged  to  be  in  Colonel  Belgrave’s  interest, 
he  proposed  changing  his  abode;  he  desired  her  therfore  not  to 
write  till  she  heard  from  him  again,  and  added,  ‘ liOrd  Cherbuiy 
was  daily  expected.’ 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Mine  eyes  were  half  closed  in  sleep.  Soft  music  came  to  mine  ear ; It  was  iike  the 
rising  breeze,  that  whirls  at  first  the  thistle^s  beard,  that  flies,  dark  sh^owy,  over  thd 
grass.— OssiAN. 

Amanda  went  every  morning  to  the  hall,  where  she  alternately 
played  and  read  : in  the  evening  she  again  returned  to  it ; but  in- 
stead of  staying  in  the  library,  generally  took  a book  from  thence,, 
and  read  at  the  foot  of  some  old  moss-covered  tree,  delighted  to 
hear  its  branches  gently  rustling  over  her  head,  and  myriads  of 
summer  flies  buzzing  in  the  sunny  ray,  from  which  she  was  shel- 
tered. When  she  could  no  longer  see  to  read,  she  deposited  her 
book  in  the  she  had  taken  it  from,  and  rambled  to  the  deep* 
©st  recesses  of  the  grove  : this  was  the  time  she  loved  to  saunter 
alcmg,  while  all  the  jarring  passions  that  obtruding  care 


32 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


excited  were  hushed  to  peace  by  the  solemnity  and  silence  of  the 
hour,  and  the  soul  felt  at  once  composed  and  elevated  : this  was 
the  time  she  loved  to  think  on  days  departed,  and  sketch  those 
scenes  of  felicity  which,  she  trusted,  the  days  to  come  would  real- 
ize. Sometimes  she  gave  way  to  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a young 
and  romantic  fancy,  and  pictured  to  herself  the  time  when  the 
shades  she  wandered  beneath  were 

the  haunts  of  meditation. 

The  scenes,  where  ancient  bards  the  inspiring  breath 
Ecstatic  felt,  and,  from  this  world  retired. 

Conversed  with  angels,  and  immortal  forms. 

On  gracious  errands  bent ; to  save  the  fall 
Of  Virtue  struggling  on  the  brink  of  Vice.— Thomson. 

Her  health  gradually  grew  better,  as  the  tranquillity  of  her 
mind  increased  : a faint  blush  again  began  to  tinge  her  cheek,  and 
her  lovely  eyes  beamed  a placid  luster,  through  their  long  silken 
lashes.  ^ 

She  returned  one  evening  from  her  usual  ramble,  with  one  of 
those  unaccountable  depressions  on  her  spirits  to  which,  in  a 
greater  or  lesser  degree,  almost  everyone  is  subject.  When  she 
retired  to  bed,  her  sleeping  thoughts  took  the  tincture  of  her  wak- 
ing ones,  and  images  of  the  most  affecting  nature  arose  in  her 
mind  : she  went  through  the  whole  story  of  her  mother’s  suffer- 
ings, and  suddenly  dreamt  she  beheld  her  expiring  under  the 
greatest  torture  ; and  that  while  she  wept  her  fate  the  clouds 
opened,  and  discovered  her  adorned  with  seraphic  beauty,  bend- 
ing with  a benignant  look  toward  her  child,  as  if  to  assure  her  of 
her  present  happiness.  From  this  dream  Amanda  was  roused  by 
the  softest,  sweetest  strains  of  music  she  had  ever  heard  : she 
started  with  amazement ; she  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  a light 
around  her,  far  exceeding  that  of  twilight.  Her  dream  had  made 
a deep  impression  on  her,  and  a solemn  awe  diffused  itself  over 
her  mind;  she  trembled  universally;  but  soon  did  the  emotion 
of  awe  give  way  to  that  of  surprise,  when  she  heard  on  the  out- 
side of  the  window  the  following  lines  from  Cowley,  sung  in  a 
manly  and  exquisitely  melodious  voice,  the  music  which 
her  being  only  a symphony  to  them  : 

Awake,  awake,  my  lyre. 

And  tell  thy  silent  master’s  humble  tale 
In  sounds  that  may  prevail ; 

Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire. 

Though  so  exalted  she, 

And  I so  lowly  be, 

Tell  her  such  different  notes  make  aD  thy  haeMOyi 
Hark,  how  the  strings  awake. 

And  though  the  moving  hand  approach  not  iMtt* 

Themselves  with  awful  fear 
A Vind  of  numerous  trembling  make. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


fa 


Now  all  thy  forces  try. 

Now  all  thy  charms  apply, 

Ecvenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquest  of  her  oye. 

Weak  lyre,  thy  virtue  sure 
Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only  found 
To  cure,  but  not  to  wound. 

And  she  to  wound,  but  not  to  cure. 

Too  weak,  too,  wilt  thou  prove 
My  passion  to  remove. 

Physic  to  other  ills,  thou’rt  nourishment  to  lova 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  lyre, 

For  thou  canst  never  tell. my  humble  tale, 

In  sounds  that  will  prevail, 

Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire. 

All  thy  vain  mirth  lay  by. 

Bid  thy  strings  silent  lie. 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  lyre,  and  let  thy  master  die. 

Ere  the  voice  ceased,  Amanda  had  quite  shaken  off  the  effects 
of  her  dream ; and  when  all  again  was  silent,  she  drew  back  the 
curtain,  and  saw  it  was  the  moon,  then  at  the  full,  which,  beam- 
ing through  the  calico  window  curtains,  cast  such  a light  around 
her.  The  remainder  of  the  night  was  passed  in  ruminating  on 
this  strange  incident ; it  was  evident  the  serenade  was  addressed 
to  her ; but  she  had  not  seen  anyone  since  her  arrival  in  the 
neighborhood  from  whom  she  could  have  expected  such  a compli- 
ment, or,  indeed, believed  capable  of  paying  it;  that  the  person 
who  paid  it  was  one  of  no  mean  accomplishments,  from  his  per- 
formance, she  could  not  doubt.  She  resolved  to  conceal  the  inci- 
dent, but  to  make  such  inquiries  the  next  morning  as  might 
possibly  lead  to  a discovery.  From  the  answers  those  inquiries 
received,  the  clergyman  was  the  only  person  whom,  with  any 
degree  of  probability,  she  could  fix  on.  She  had  never  seen  him, 
and  was  at  a loss  to  conceive  how  he  knew  anything  of  her,  till  it 
occurred  he  might  have  seen  her  going  to  Tudor  Hall,  or  ram- 
bling about  it. 

From  the  moment  this  idea  arose,  Amanda  deemed  it  impru* 
dent  to  go  to  the  hall ; yet  so  great  was  the  pleasure  she  experi- 
enced there,  she  could  not  think  of  relinquishing  it  without  the 
greatest  reluctance.  She  at  last  considered,  if  she  had  a cornpan- 
ibn,  it  would  remove  any  appearance  of  impropriety.  Ellen  was 
generally  employed  at  knitting;  Amanda  therefore  saw  that 
going  to  the  hall  could  not  interfere  with  her  employment,  and 
accordingly  asked  her  attendance  thither,  which  the  other  joy- 
fully agreed  to. 

‘ While  you  look  over  the  books,’ said  Ellen,  as  they  entered 
the  library,  ‘ I will  just  step  away  about  a little  business.  ’ ‘ I beg 

you  may  not  be  long  absent,’  cried  Amanda.  Ellen  assured  her 
that  she  would  not,  and  flew  off  directly.  She  had  in  truth  seen^ 
m an  enclosure  near  the  hall,  Tim  Chip,  the  carpenter,  at  work 


34 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


who  was  the  rural  Adonis  of  these  shades.  He  had  long  selected 
Ellen  for  the  fair  nymph  of  his  affection,  which  distinction  ex- 
cited not  a little  jealousy  among  the  village  girls,  and  consider- 
ably increased  the  vanity  of  Ellen,  who  triumphed  in  a conquest 
that  at  once  gratified  her  love,  and  exalted  her  above  her  com- 
panions. 

Amanda  entered  the  music-room.  The  melodious  strains  she 
had  heard  the  proceeding  night  dwelt  upon  her  memory,  and  she 
sat  down  to  the  piano  and  attempted  them ; her  ear  soon  informed 
her  the  attempt  was  successful ; and  her  voice  (as  the  words  were 
familiar  to  her)  then  accompanied  the  instrument.  ‘ Heavenly 
sounds ! ’ exclaimed  someone  behind  her,  as  she  concluded  sing- 
ing. Amanda  started  in  terror  and  confusion  from  the  chair,  and 
beheld  a tall  and  elegant  young  man  standing  by  it.  ‘ Good 
Heaven !’ cried  she,  blushing  and  hastily  moving  to  the  door, 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  said,  ‘ where  can  Ellen  be?  ’ ‘ And 

-do  you  think,’  said  the  stranger,  springing  forward  and  inter- 
cepting her  passage,  ‘ I shall  let  you  escape  in  this  manner?  No; 
really,  my  charming  girl,  I should  be  the  most  insensible  of 
beings  if  I did  not  avail  myself  of  the  happy  opportunity  chance 
afforded  of  entreating  leave  to  be  introduced  to  you.’  As  he 
spoke,  he  gently  seized  her  hand  and  carried  it  to  his  lips.  ‘ Be 
assured,  sir,  ’ said  Amanda,  ‘ the  chance,  as  you  call  it,  which 
brought  us  together,  is  to  me  most  unpleasant,  as  I fear  it  has 
exposed  me  to  greater  freedom  than  I have  been  accustomed  to.’ 
* And  is  it  possible, ’said  he,  ‘ you  really  feel  an  emotion  of  anger? 
Well,  I will  relinquish  my  lovely  captive  if  she  condescendingly 
promises  to  continue  here  a few  minutes  longer,  and  grants  me 
permission  to  attend  her  home.’  ‘ I insist  on  being  immediately 
released,’  exclaimed  x^manda,  ‘ I obey,’  cried  he,  softly  pressing 
her  hand,  and  then  resigning  it ; ‘ you  are  free ; would  to  Heaven 
I could  say  the  same ! ’ 

Amanda  hurried  to  the  grove,  but  in  her  confusion  took  the 
wrong  path,  and  vainly  cast  her  eyes  around  in  search  of  Ellen, 
The  stranger  followed,  and  his  eyes  wandered  with  hers  in  every 
d.irection  they  took.  And  why,’ cried  he,  ‘so  unpropitious  to 
iny  wish  of  introduction? — a wish  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel 
from  the  moment  you  were  seen.’  Amanda  made  no  reply,  but 
«till  hurried  on,  and  her  fatigue  and  agitation  were  soon  too  much 
for  her  present  weak  state  of  health,  and,  quite  overpowered,  she 
was  at  last  compelled  to  stop,  and  lean  against  a tree  for  support. 
Exercise  had  diffused  its  softest  bloom  over  her  cheek  ; her  hair 
fiuttered  in  the  breeze  that  played  around  her,  and  her  eyes,  with 
the  beautiful  embarrassment  of  modesty,  were  bent  to  the  groimd 
to  avoid  the  stranger’s  ardent  gaze.  He  watched  her  with  looks 
of  the  most  impassioned  admiration,  and  softly  exclaimed,  as  if 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


35 


the  involuntary  exclamation  of  rapture,  ‘ Good  Heavens,  what  an 
angel!  Fatigue  has  made  you  ill,’  he  said  ; ‘ and  ’tis  your  haste 
to  avoid  me  has  occasioned  this  disorder.  Could  you  look  into 
my  heart,  you  would  then  find  there  was  no  reason  to  fiy  me; 
the  emotions  that  lovely  face  excites  in  a soul  of  sensibility  could 
never  be  inimical  to  your  safety.’ 

At  this  moment  Amanda  perceived  Ellen  leaping  over  a style ; 
she  had  at  last  left  Mr.  Chip,  after  promising  to  meet  him  in  the 
evening  at  the  cottage,  where  the  blind  harper  was  to  attend  to 
give  them  a dance.  She  ran  forward,  but,  on  seeing  the  stranger,, 
started  back  in  the  utmost  amazement.  ‘ Bless  me  1 ’ said  Amanda, 
‘I  thought  you  would  never  come.’  ‘You  go  then,’  said  the 
stranger,  ‘ and  give  me  no  hope  of  a second  interview.  Oh,  say,'’ 
taking  her  hand,  ‘ will  you  not  allow  me  to  wait  upon  you  ? ’ ‘It 
is  utterly  impossible,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘ and  I shall  be  quite  dis- 
tressed if  longer  detained.’  ‘See  then,’ said  he,  opening  a gate 
which  led  from  the  grove  into  the  road,  ‘ how  like  a courteous 
knight  I release  you  from  painful  captivity.  But  think  not,  thou 
beautiful  though  cruel  fair  one,  ’ he  continued  gayly,  ‘ I shall  re- 
sign my  hopes  of  yet  conquering  thy  obduracy.’ 

‘ O Lord  1 ’ cried  Ellen,  as  they  quitted  the  grove,  ‘ how  did 
you  meet  with  Lord  Mortimer  ? ’ ‘ Lord  Mortimer  ? ’ repeated 

Amanda.  ‘Yes,  himself,  inteed,’  said  Ellen;  ‘ and  I think  in  all 
my  porn  days  I was  never  more  surprised  than  when  I saw  him 
with  you,  looking  so  soft  and  so  sweet  upon  you ; to  be  sure  he 
is  a beautiful  man,  and  besides  that,  the  young  Lort  of  Tudor 
Hall.’  Amanda’s  spirits  wei’e  greatly  fiurried  when  she  heard  he 
was  the  master  of  the  mansion,  where  he  had  found  her  seated 
with  as  much  composure  as  if  possessor  of  it. 

As  they  were  entering  the  cottage,  Ellen,  twitching  Amanda’s 
sleeve,  cried,  ‘Look!  look!’  Amanda,  hastily  turning  round,, 
perceived  Lord  Mortimer,  who  had  slowly  followed  them  half- 
v/ay  down  the  lane.  On  being  observed,  he  smiled  and,  hissing 
his  hand,  retired. 

Nurse  was  quite  delighted  at  her  child  being  seen  by  Lord 
Mortimer  (which  Ellen  informed  her  of)  : her  beauty,  she  was 
convinced,  had  excited  his  warmest  admiration ; and  admiration 
might  lead  (she  did  not  doubt)  to  something  more  important. 
Amanda’s  heart  fluttered  with  an  agreeable  sensation,  as  Ellen 
described  to  her  mother  the  tender  looks  with  which  Lord  Morti- 
mer regarded  her.  She  was  at  first  inclined  to  believe  that  in  his 
lordship  she  had  found  the  person  whose  melody  so  agreeably  dis- 
turbed her  slumbers ; but  a minute’s  reflection  convinced  her  this 
belief  must  be  erroneous ; it  was  evident  (or  she  would  have  heard  of 
it)  that  Lord  Mortimer  had  only  arrived  that  day  at  Tudor  Halt 
and  even  had  he  seen  her  before,  upon  consideration  she  though# 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


2Q 

it  improbable  that  he  should  have  taken  the  trouble  of  coming  in 
such  a manner  to  a person  in  a station,  to  all  appearance,  so  in- 
finitely beneath  his  own.  Yes,  it  was  plain,  chance  alone  had 
led  him  to  the  apartment  where  she  sat ; and  the  commonplace 
gallantry  fashionable  men  are  accustomed  to,  had  dictated  the 
language  he  addressed  to  her.  She  half  sighed,  as  she  settled  the 
matter  thus  in  her  mind,  and  again  fixed  on  the  curate  as  her  sere- 
nader.  Well,  she  was  determined,  if  ever  he  came  in  her  way, 
and  dropped  a hint  of  an  attachment,  she  would  immediately 
crush  any  hope  he  might  have  the  vanity  to  entertain  I 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  blossoms  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 

Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind.— Goldsmith. 

After  tea  Amanda  asked  little  Betsey  to  accompany  her  in  a 
walk;  for  Ellen  (dressed  in  all  her  rural  finery)  had  gone  earlier 
in  the  evening  to  the  dance.  But  Amanda  did  not  begin  her  walk 
with  her  usual  alacrity : her  bonnet  was  so  heavy,  and  then  it 
made  her  look  so  ill,  that  she  could  not  go  out  till  she  had  made 
some  alterations  in  it ; still  it  would  not  do;  a hat  was  tried  on; 
she  liked  it  better,  and  at  last  set  out;  but  not  as  usual  did  she 
pause,  whenever  a new  or  lovely  feature  in  the  landscape  struck 
her  view,  to  express  her  admiration:  she  was  often  indeed  so 
absorbed  in  thought,  as  to  start  when  Betsey  addressed  her, 
which  was  often  the  case:  for  little  Betsey  delighted  to  have  Miss 
Amanda  to  trace  figures  for  her  in  the  clouds,  and  assist  her  in 
gathering  wild  flowers.  Scarcely  knowing  which  way  they  went 
Amanda  rambled  to  the  village;  and  feeling  herself  fatigued, 
turned  into  the  churchyard  to  rest  upon  one  of  the  raised  flags. 

The  graves  were  ornamented  with  garlands  of  cut  paper,  inter- 
woven with  flowers : tributes  of  love  from  the  village  maids  to  the 
memory  of  their  departed  friends. 

As  Amanda  rested  herself,  she  twined  a garland  of  the  wild 
flowers  she  had  gathered  with  Betsey,  and  hung  it  over  the  grave 
of  Lady  Malvina:  her  fine  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  as  if  invoking  at 
that  moment  the  spirit  of  her  mother,  to  regard  the  vernal  offer- 
ing of  her  child;  while  her  white  hands  were  folded  on  her  heart, 
and  she  softly  exclaimed,  ‘ Alas,  is  this  the  only  tribute  for  me  to 
pay!’ 

A low  murmur,  as  if  from  voices  near,  startled  her  at  the  instant; 
-she  turned  with  quickness,  and  saw  Lord  Mortimer,  with  a young 
clergyman,  half  hid  by  some  trees,  attentively  observing  her 
Blushing  and  confused,  she  drew  her  hat  over  her  face,  and  catch 
ing  Betsey’s  hand,  hastened  to  the  cottage. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


31 


Lord  Mortimer  had  wandered  about  the  skirts  of  the  cottage,  in 
hopes  of  meeting  her  in  the  evening;  on  seeing  the  direction  she 
had  taken  from  it,  he  followed  her,  and  just  as  she  entered  the 
churchyard,  unexpectedly  met  the  curate.  His  company,  at  a 
moment  so  propitious  for  joining  Amanda,  he  could  well  have 
dispensed  with ; for  he  was  more  anxious  than  he  chose  to  ac- 
knowledge to  himself,  to  become  acquainted  with  her. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  now  in  the  glowing  prime  of  life;  his  per- 
son was  strikingly  elegant,  and  his  manners  insinuatingly  pleas- 
ing; seducing  sweetness  dwelt  in  his  smile,  and,  as  he  pleased,  his 
expressive  eyes  could  sparkle  with  intelligence,  or  beam  with  sen- 
sibility: and  to  the  eloquence  of  his  language,  the  harmony  of  his 
voice  imparted  a charm  that  seldom  failed  of  being  irresistible ; 
his  soul  was  naturally  the  seat  of  every  virtue;  but  an  elevated 
rank,  and  splendid  fortune,  had  placed  him  in  a situation  some- 
what inimical  to  their  interests,  for  he  had  not  always  strength 
to  resist  the  strong  temptations  which  surrounded  him;  but 
though  he  sometimes  wandered  from  the  boundaries  of  virtue,  he 
had  never  yet  entered  upon  the  confines  of  vice — never  really  in- 
jured innocence,  or  done  a deed  which  could  wound  the  bosom 
of  a friend : his  heart  was  alive  to  every  noble  propensity  of  nature ; 
compassion  was  one  of  its  strongest  feelings,  and  never  did  his  hand 
refuse  obedience  to  the  generous  impulse.  Among  the  various  ac- 
complishments he  possessed,  was  an  exquisite  taste  for  music, 
which,  with  every  other  talent,  had  been  cultivated  to  the  highest 
degree  of  possible  perfection;  his  spending  many  years  abroad 
had  given  him  every  requisite  advantage  for  improving  it.  The 
soft,  melodious  voice  of  Amanda  would  of  itself  almost  have  made 
a conquest  of  his  heart ; but  aided  by  the  charms  of  her  face  and 
person,  all  together  were  irresistible. 

He  had  come  into  Wales  on  purpose  to  pay  a visit  to  an  old 
friend  in  the  Isle  of  Anglesey : he  did  not  mean  to  stop  at  Tudor 
Hall;  but  within  a few  miles  of  it  the  phaeton,  in  which  he 
traveled  (from  the  fineness  of  the  weather),  was  overturned,  and 
he  severely  hurt.  He  procured  a hired  carriage,  and  proceeded 
to  the  Hall,  to  put  himself  into  the  hands  of  the  good  old  house- 
keeper, Mrs.  Abergwilly;  who,  possessing  as  great  a stock  of 
medical  knowledge  as  Lady  Bountiful  herself,  he  believed  would 
cure  his  bruises  with  as  much,  or  rather  more  expedition,  than 
any  country  surgeon  whatever.  He  gave  strict  orders  that  his  be- 
ing at  the  Hall  should  not  be  mentioned,  as  he  did  not  choose,  the 
few  days  he  hoped  and  believed  he  should  continue  there,  to  be 
disturbed  by  visits  which  he  knew  would  be  paid  if  an  intimation 
of  his  being  there  was  received.  From  an  apartment  adjoining 
the  music-room  he  had  discovered  Amanda.  Though  scarcely 
able  to  move,  at  the  first  sound  of  her  voice  he  stole  to  the  door; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


38 

which  being*  a little  open,  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  seeing  her 
perfectly ; and  nothing  but  his  situation  prevented  his  immediately 
appearing  before  her,  and  expressing  the  admiration  she  had  in- 
spired him  with.  As  soon  as  she  departed  he  sent  for  the  house- 
keeper, to  inquire  who  the  beautiful  stranger  was.  Mrs  Aberg- 
willy  only  knew  she  was  a young  lady  lately  come  from  London 
to  lodge  at  David  Edwin’s  cottage,  whose  wife  had  entreated  per- 
mission for  her  to  read  in  the  library,  which,  she  added,  she  had 
given,  seeing  that  his  lordship  read  in  his  dressing  room;  but,  if 
he  pleased,  she  would  send  Miss  Dunford  word  not  to  come 
again.  ‘ By  no  means,’  his  lordship  said.  Amanda  therefore  con- 
tinued her  visits  as  usual,  little  thinking  with  what  critical  regard 
and  fond  admiration  she  was  observed.  Lord  Mortimer  daily 
grew  better;  but  the  purpose  for  which  he  had  come  into  Wales 
seemed  utterly  forgotten;  he  had  a tincture  of  romance  in  his 
disposition,  and  availed  himself  of  his  recovery  to  gratify  it,  by 
taking  a lute  and  serenading  his  lovely  cottage  girl.  He  could 
DO  longer  restrain  his  impatience  to  be  known  to  her ; and  the 
Dext  day,  stealing  from  his  retirement,  surprised  her  as  already 
related. 

As  he  could  not,  without  an  utter  violation  of  good  manners, 
shake  off  Howel,  he  contented  himself  with  following  Amanda 
into  the  churchyard,  where,  shaded  by  trees,  he  and  his  com- 
panion stood  watching  her  unnoticed,  till  an  involuntary  excla- 
mation of  rapture  from  his  lordship  discovered  their  situation. 
When  she  departed,  he  read  the  inscription  on  the  tombstone; 
but,  from  the  difference  of  names,  this  gave  no  insight  into  any 
connection  between  her  and  the  person  it  mentioned,  Howel 
could  give  no  information  of  either;  he  was  but  a young  man, 
lately  appointed  to  the  parsonage,  and  had  never  seen  Amanda 
till  that  evening. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  solicitous,  even  to  a degree  of  anxiety,  to 
learn  the  real  situation  of  Amanda.  As  Howel,  in  his  pastoral 
function,  had  access  to  the  houses  of  his  parishioners,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  would  be  an  excellent  person  to  discover  it ; he 
therefore,  as  if  from  curiosity  alone,  expressed  his  wish  of  knowing 
who  she  was,  and  requested  Howel,  if  convenient,  to  follow  her 
directly  to  Edwin’s  cottage  (where,  he  said,  by  chance,  he  heard 
she  lodged),  and  endeavor  to  find  out  from  the  good  people  every- 
thing about  her.  This  request  Howel  readily  complied  with  ; the 
face,  the  figure,  the  melancholy,  and,  above  all,  the  employment 
of  Amanda,  had  interested  his  sensibility  and  excited  his  curiosity. 

He  arrived  soon  after  her  at  the  cottage,  and  found  her  laugh- 
ing at  her  nurse,  who  was  telling  her  she  was  certain  she  should 
see  her  a great  lady.  Amanda  rose  to  retire  at  his  entrance  ; bn  t 
he,  perceiving  her  intention,  declared  if  he  disturbed  hoi‘,  htj 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


39 


^uld  immediately  depart  ; she  accordingly  reseated  herself,  so 
cretly  pleased  at  doing  so,  as  she  thought,  either  from  some  look 
or  word  of  the  curate’s,  she  might  discover  if  he  really  was  the 
person  who  had  serenaded  her  ; from  this  idea  she  showed  no 
aversion  to  enter  into  conversation  with  him. 

The  whole  family,  nurse  excepted,  had  followed  Ellen  to  the 
dance  ; and  that  good  woman  thought  she  could  do  no  less,  for 
the  honor  of  Howel’s  visit,  than  prepare  a little  comfortable  sup- 
per for  him.  The  benevolence  of  his  disposition,  and  innocent 
gayety  of  his  temper,  had  rendered  him  a great  favorite  amongst 
his  rustic  neighbors,  whom  he  frequently  amused  with  simple 
ballads  and  pleasant  tales.  Amanda  and  he  were  left  tete-a-tete 
while  the  nurse  was  busied  in  preparing  her  entertainment ; and  she 
was  soon  as  much  pleased  with  the  elegance  and  simplicity  of  his 
manners,  as  he  was  with  the  innocence  and  sweetness  of  hers. 
The  objects  about  them  naturally  led  to  rural  subjects,  and 
from  them  to  what  might  almost  be  termed  a dissertation  on 
poetry  : this  was  a theme  peculiarly  agreeable  to  Howel,  who 
wooed  the  pensive  muse  beneath  the  sylvan  shade  ; nor  was  it  less 
so  to  Amanda — she  was  a zealous  worshiper  of  the  muses,  though 
diffidence  made  her  conceal  her  invocations  to  them.  She  was 
led  to  point  out  the  beauties  of  her  favorite  authors,  and  the  soft 
sensibility  of  her  voice  raised  a kind  of  tender  enthusiasm  in 
HoweTs  soul  ; he  gazed  and  listened,  as  if  his  eye  could  never  be 
satished  with  seeing,  or  his  ear  with  hearing.  At  his  particular 
request,  Amanda  recited  the  pathetic  description  of  the  curate  and 
his  lovely  daughter  from  the  ‘Deserted  Village’ — a tear  stole 
down  her  cheek  as  she  proceeded.  Howel  softly  laid  his  hand 
on  hers,  and  exclaimed,  ‘ Good  Heavens,  what  an  angel  ! ’ 

‘ Come,  come,  ’ said  Amanda,  smiling  at  the  energy  with  which 
he  spoke,  ‘ you,  at  least,  should  have  nothing  to  do  with  flattery.  * 

‘ Flattery ! ’ repeated  he,  emphatically  ; ‘ O Heavens  ! did  you 
but  know  my  sincerity ’ 

‘Well,  well,’  cried  she,  wishing  to  change  the  subject,  ‘utter  no 
expression  in  future  which  shall  make  me  doubt  it.’ 

‘ To  flatter  you,’  said  he,  ‘ would  be  impossible,  since  the  high- 
est eulogium  must  be  inadequate  to  your  merits.’ 

‘ Again  ! ’ said  Amanda. 

‘Believe  me,’  he  replied,  ‘ flattery  is  a meanness  I abhor  ; the 
expressions  you  denominate  as  such  proceed  from  emotions  I 
should  contemn  myself  for  want  of  sensibility  if  I did  not  exper- 
ience.’ 

The  nurse’s  duck  and  green  peas  were  now  set  upon  the  table, 
but  in  vain  did  she  press  Howel  to  eat  ; his  eyes  where  too  well 
feasted  to  allow  him  to  attend  to  his  palate.  Finding  entreaties 
ineffectual  in  one  respect,  she  tried  them  in  another,  and  begged 


40 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


he  would  sing  a favorite  old  ballad  ; this  he  at  first  hesitated  to 
do,  till  Amanda  (from  a secret  motive  of  her  own)  joined  in  the 
entreaty ; and  the  moment  she  heard  his  voice,  she  was  convinced 
he  was  not  the  person  who  had  been  at  the  outside  of  her  window. 
After  his  complaisance  to  her,  she  could  not  refuse  him  one  song. 
The  melodious  sounds  sunk  into  his  heart  ; he  seemed  fascinated 
to  the  spot,  nor  thought  of  moving  till  the  nurse  gave  him  a hint 
for  that  purpose,  being  afraid  of  Amanda  sitting  up  too  late. 

He  sighed  as  he  entered  his  humble  dwelling  ; it  was  perhaps 
the  first  sigh  he  had  ever  heaved  for  the  narrowness  of  his  fortune. 
‘Yet,’ cried  he,  casting  his  eyes  around,  ‘in  this  abode,  low  and 
humble  as  it  is,  a soul  like  Amanda’s  might  enjoy  felicity.’ 

The  purpose  for  which  Lord  Mortimer  sent  him  to  the  cottage^ 
and  Lord  Mortimer  himself,  were  forgotten.  His  lordship  had 
engaged  Howel  to  sup  with  him  after  the  performance  of  his  em- 
bassy, and  impatiently  awaited  his  arrival  : he  felt  displeased,  as 
the  hours  wore  away  without  bringing  him  ; and  unable  ri  last 
to  restrain  the  impetuosity  of  his  feelings,  proceeded  to  the  par- 
sonage, which  he  entered  a few  minutes  after  Howel.  He  asked, 
with  no  great  complacency,  the  reason  he  had  not  fulfilled  his  en- 
gagement. Absorbed  in  one  idea,  Howol  felt  confused,  agitated, 
and  unable  to  frame  any  excuse  ; he  therefore  simply  said,  what 
in  reality  was  true,  ‘ that  he  had  utterly  forgotten  it.’ 

‘ I suppose,  then,’  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  in  a ruffled  voice, 
‘ you  have  been  very  agreeably  entertained?  ’ 

‘Delightfully,’  said  Howel. 

Lord  Mortimer  grew  more  displeased,  but  his  anger  was  now 
leveled  against  himself  as  well  as  Howel.  He  repented  and  re- 
gretted the  folly  which  had  thrown  Howel  in  the  way  of  such 
temptation,  and  had  perhaps  raised  a rival  to  himself. 

‘ Well,’  cried  he  after  a few  hasty  paces  about  the  room,  ‘ and 
pray,  what  do  you  know  about  Miss  Dunford?  ’ 

‘ About  her ! ’ repeated  Howel,  as  if  starting  from  a reverie ; 
* why — nothing.  ’ 

‘ Nothing ! ’ re-echoed  his  lordship. 

‘ No,’  replied  Howel,  ‘ except  that  she  is  an  angel.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  now  thoroughly  convinced  all  was  over 
with  the  poor  parson ; and  resolved,  in  consequence  of  this  con- 
viction, to  lose  no  time  himself.  He  could  not  depart  without 
inquiring  how  the  evening  had  been  spent,  and  envied  Howel  the 
happy  minutes  he  had  so  eloquently  described. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


41 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Hither  turn 

Thy  graceful  footsteps;  hither,  gentle  maid. 

Incline  thy  polished  forehead.  Let  thy  eyes 
Effuse  the  mildness  of  their  azure  dawn; 

And  may  the  fanning  breezes  waft  aside 
Thy  radiant  locks,  disclosing,  as  it  bends 
With  airy  softness  from  the  marble  neck, 

The  cheek  fair-blooming,  and  the  rosy  lip, 

Where  winning  smiles,  and  pleasure  sweet  as  loye 
With  sanctity  and  wisdom,  tempering  blend 
Their  soft  allurements.— Akensidb. 

While  Amanda  was  at  breakfast  the  next  morning*,  Betsey 
brought  a letter  to  her;  expecting  to  hear  from  her  father,  she 
eagerly  opened  it,  and  to  her  great  surprise,  persued  the  following 
lines: 

To  Miss  Dunford. 

Lord  Mortimer  begs  leave  to  assure  Miss  Dunford  he  shall  remain  dissatis- 
fied with  himself  till  he  has  an  opportunity  of  personally  apologizing  for  his 
intrusion  yesterday.  If  the  sweetness  of  her  disposition  fulfills  the  promise 
her  face  has  given  of  it,  he  flatters  himself  his  pardon  will  speedily  be  accorded ; 
yet  never  shall  he  think  himself  entirely  forgiven,  if  her  visits  to  the  library  are 
discontinued.  Happy  and  honored  shall  Lord  Mortimer  consider  himself,  if 
Tudor  Hall  contains  anything  which  can  amuse  or  merit  the  attention  of  Miss 
Dunford. 

July  17. 

‘ From  Lord  Mortimer ! ’ said  Amanda,  with  involuntary 
emotion.  ‘ Well,  this  really  has  astonished  me.’  ‘ Oh  Lort,  my 
tear!’  Cried  the  nurse  in  rapture. 

Amanda  waved  her  hand  to  silence  her,  as  the  servant  stood  in 
the  outside  room.  She  called  Betsey:  ‘Tell  the  servant,’ said 
she 

‘ Lort!  ’ cried  the  nurse  softly,  and  twitching  her  sleeve,  ‘ write 
his  lortship  a little  pit  of  a note,  just  to  let  him  see  what  a pretty 
scribe  you  are.’ 

Amanda  could  not  refrain  smiling;  but  disengaging  herself 
from  the  good  woman,  she  arose,  and  going  to  the  servant,  de- 
sired him  to  tell  his  lord,  she  thanked  him  for  his  polite  attention ; 
but  that  in  future  it  would  not  be  in  her  power  to  go  to  the 
library.  When  she  returned  to  the  room,  the  nurse  bitterly  la- 
mented her  not  writing.  ‘Great  matters,’ she  said,  ‘had  often 
arisen  from  small  beginnings.’  She  could  not  conceive  why  his 
lortship  should  be  treated  in  such  a manner:  it  was  not  the  way 
she  had  ever  served  her  Edwin.  Lort,  she  remembered  if  she  got 
but  the  scrawl  of  a pen  from  him,  she  used  to  sit  up  to  answer  it. 
Amanda  tried  to  persuade  her  it  was  neither  necessary  or  proper 
for  her  to  write.  An  hour  passed  in  arguments  between  them* 


42 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


when  two  servants  came  from  Tudor  Hall  to  the  cottage  with  a 
small  bookcase,  which  they  sent  in  to  Amanda,  and  their  lord’s 
compliments,  that  in  a few  minutes  he  would  have  the  honor  of 
paying  his  respects  to  her. 

Amanda  felt  agitated  by  this  message ; but  it  was  the  agitation 
of  involuntary  pleasure.  Her  room  was  always  perfectly  neat, 
yet  did  the  nurse  and  her  two  daughters  now  busy  themselves 
with  trying,  if  possible,  to  put  it  into  nicer  order : the  garden  was 
ransacked  for  the  choicest  flowers  to  ornament  it;  nor  would  they 
depart  till  they  saw  Lord  Mortimer  approaching.  Amanda,  who 
had  opened  the  bookcase,  then  snatched  up  a book,  to  avoid  the 
appearance  of  sitting  in  expectation  of  his  coming. 

He  entered  with  a air  at  once  easy  and  respectful,  and  taking 
her  hand,  besought  forgiveness  for  his  intrusion  the  preceding 
day.  Amanda  blushed,  and  faltered  out  something  of  the  confusion 
she  had  experienced  from  being  so  surprised;  he  reseated  her, 
and  drawing  a chair  close  to  hers,  said  he  had  taken  the  liberty 
of  sending  her  a few  books  to  amuse  her,  till  she  again  conde- 
scended to  visit  the  library,  which  he  entreated  her  to  do ; promis- 
ing that,  if  she  pleased,  both  it  and  the  music  room  should  be 
sacred  to  her  alone.  She  thanked  him  for  his  politeness;  but 
declared  she  must  be  excused  from  going.  Lord  Mortimer  re- 
garded her  with  a degree  of  tender  admiration;  an  admiration 
heightened  by  the  contrast  he  drew  in  his  mind  between  her  and 
the  generality  of  fashionable  women  he  had  seen,  whom  he  often 
secretly  censured  for  sacrificing  too  largely  at  the  shrine  of  art 
and  fashion.  The  pale  and  varied  blush  which  mantled  the  cheek 
of  Amanda  at  once  announced  itself  to  be  an  involuntary  suf- 
fusion ; and  her  dress  was  only  remarkable  for  its  simplicit}^ ; she 
wore  a plain  robe  of  dimity,  and  an  abbey  cap  of  thin  muslin, 
that  shaded,  without  concealing,  her  face,  and  gave  to  it  the  soft 
expression  of  a Madonna;  her  beautiful  hair  fell  in  long  ringlets 
down  her  back,  and  curled  upon  her  forehead. 

‘ Good  Heaven ! ’ cried  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘ how  has  your  idea 
dwelt  upon  my  mind  since  last  night  : if  in  the  morning  I was 
charmed,  in  the  evening  I was  enraptured.  Your  looks,  your 
attitude,  were  then  beyond  all  that  imagination  could  conceive  of 
loveliness  and  grace  ; you  appeared  as  a being  of  another  world 
mourning  over  a kindred  spirit.  I felt 

‘ Awe-struck,  and  as  I passed,  I worshiped.’  , 

Confused  by  the  energy  of  his  words,  and  the  ardent  glances 
he  directed  toward  her,  Amanda,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  did, 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  book  she  still  held  in  her  hand ; in 
doing  so,  she  saw  written  on  the  title-page,  ‘ the  Earl  of  CherburyJ 
‘Cherbury?’  repeated  she,  in  astonishment. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


is 


* Do  you  know  him?  ’ asked  Lord  Mortimer. 

‘ Not  personally;  but  I revere,  I esteem  him;  he  is  one  of  the 
oest,  the  truest  friends,  my  father  ever  had.’ 

‘Oh,  how  happy,’ exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘would  his  son 
be,  were  he  capable  of  inspiring  you  with  such  sentiments  as  you 
avow  for  him. 

‘ His  son ! ’ repeated  Amanda,  in  a tone  of  surprise,  and  looking 
at  Lord  Mortimer. 

‘ Yes,’  replied  he.  ‘ Is  it  then  possible,’  he  continued,  ‘ that  you 
are  really  ignorant  of  his  being  my  father?  ’ 

Surprise  kept  her  silent  a few  minutes ; for  her  father  had  never 
given  her  any  account  of  the  earl’s  family,  till  about  the  period 
he  thought  of  applying  to  him ; and  her  mind  was  so  distracted 
at  that  time  on  his  own  account,  that  she  scarcely  understood  a 
word  he  uttered.  In  the  country  she  had  never  heard  Lord 
Cherbury  mentioned;  for  Tudor  Hall  belonged  not  to  him,  but  to 
Lord  Mortimer,  to  whom  an  uncle  had  bequeathed  it. 

‘ I thought,  indeed,  my  lord,’  said  Amanda,  as  soon  as  she  re- 
covered her  voice,  ‘ that  your  lordship’s  title  was  familiar  to  me ; 
though  why,  from  the  hurry  and  perplexity  in  which  particular 
circumstances  involved  me,  I could  not  tell.  ’ 

‘ Oh,  suffer,’  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  with  one  of  his  most  insinu- 
ating smiles,  ‘ the  friendship  which  our  parents  feel  to  be  contin- 
ued to  their  children ; let  this,’  taking  her  soft  hand,  and  pressing 
his  lips  to  it,  ‘be  the  pledge  of  amity  between  us.’  He  now  in- 
quired when  the  intimacy  between  her  father  and  his  had  com- 
menced, and  where  the  former  was.  But  from  those  inquiries 
Amanda  shrunk.  She  reflected,  that,  without  her  father’s  per- 
mission, she  had  no  right  to  answer  them;  and  that  in  a situation 
like  his  or  hers,  too  much  caution  could  not  be  observed.  Be- 
sides, both  pride  and  delicacy  made  her  solicitous  at  present  to 
conceal  her  father’s  real  situation  from  Lord  Mortimer:  she  could 
not  bear  to  think  it  should  be  known  his  sole  dependence  was  on 
Lord  Cherbury,  uncertain  as  it  was  whether  that  nobleman 
^/ould  ever  answer  his  expectations.  She  repented  having  ever 
dropped  a hint  of  the  intimacy  subsisting  between  them,  which 
surprise  alone  had  made  her  do,  and  tried  to  waive  the  subject. 
In  this  design  Lord  Mortimer  assisted  her ; for  he  had  too  much 
penetration  not  instantly  to  perceive  it  confused  and  distressed 
her.  He  requested  permission  to  renew  his  visit,  but  Amanda, 
though  well  inclined  to  grant  his  request,  yielded  to  prudence  in- 
stead of  inclination,  and  begged  he  would  excuse  her;  the  seem- 
ing disparity  (she  could  not  help  saying)  in  their  situations, 
would  render  it  very  imprudent  in  her  to  receive  such  visits ; she 
blushed,  half  sighed,  and  bent  her  eyes  to  the  ground  as  she 
spoke.  Lord  Mortimer  continued  to  entreat,  but  she  was  steady 


44 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


in  refusinj^;  he  would  not  depart,  however,  till  he  had  obtained 
permission  to  attend  her  in  the  evening  to  a part  of  Tudor  Grove 
which  she  had  never  yet  seen,  and  he  described  as  particularly 
beautiful.  He  wanted  to  call  for  her  at  the  appointed  hour,  but 
she  could  not  suffer  this  and  he  was  compelled  to  be  contented 
with  leave  to  meet  her  near  the  cottage  when  it  came. 

With  a beating  heart  she  kept  her  appointment,  and  found  his 
lordship  not  many  yards  distant  from  the  cottage,  impatiently 
waiting  her  approach.  A brighter  bloom  than  usual  glowed  upon 
her  cheek  as  she  listened  to  his  ardent  expressions  of  admiration  ; 
yet  not  to  such  expressions,  which  would  soon  have  sated  an  ear 
of  delicacy  like  Amanda’s,  did  Lord  Mortimer  confine  himself  ; he 
conversed  on  various  subjects  ; and  the  eloquence  of  his  language, 
the  liveliness  of  his  imagination,  and  the  justness  of  his  remarks, 
equally  amused  and  interested  his  fair  companion.  There  was, 
indeed,  in  the  disposition  and  manners  of  Lord  Mortimer  that 
happy  mixture  of  animation  and  softness  which  at  once  amuses 
the  fancy  and  attracts  the  heart  ; and  never  had  Amanda  experi- 
enced such  minutes  as  she  now  passed  with  him,  so  delightful  in 
their  progress,  so  rapid  in  their  course.  On  entering  the  walk  he 
had  mentioned  to  her,  she  saw  he  had  not  exaggerated  its  beau- 
ties. After  passing  through  many  long  and  shaded  alleys,  they 
came  to  a smooth  green  lawn,  about  which  the  trees  rose  in  the 
form  of  an  amphitheater,  and  their  dark,  luxuriant,  and  checkered 
shades  proclaimed  that  amongst  them 

The  rude  ax,  with  heaved  stroke, 

Was  never  heard,  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. — Milton. 

The  lawn  gently  sloped  to  a winding  stream,  so  clear  as  per- 
fectly to  reflect  the  beautiful  scenery  of  heaven,  now  glowing  with 
the  gold  and  purple  of  the  setting  sun  ; from  the  opposite  bank  of 
the  stream  rose  a stupendous  mountain,  diversified  with  little  ver- 
dant hills  and  dales,  and  skirted  with  a wild  shrubbery,  whose 
blossoms  perfumed  the  air  with  the  most  balmy  fragrance.  Lord 
Mortimer  prevailed  on  Amanda  to  sit  down  upon  a rustic  bench, 
beneath  the  spreading  branches  of  an  oak,  en wreathed  with  ivy  ; 
here ’they  had  not  sat  long,  ere  the  silence,  which  reigned  around, 
was  suddenly  interrupted  by  strains,  at  once  low,  solemn,  and 
melodious,  that  seemed  to  creep  along  the  water,  till  they  had 
reached  the  place  where  they  sat  ; and  then,  as  if  a Naiad  of  the 
stream  had  left  her  rushy  couch  to  do  them  homage,  they  swelled 
by  degrees  into  full  melody,  which  the  mountain  echoes  alter- 
nately revived  and  heightened.  It  appeared  like  enchantment  to 
Amanda  ; and  her  eyes,  turned  to  Lord  Mortimer,  seemed  to  say, 
it  was  to  his  magic  it  was  owing.  After  enjoying  her  surprise 
some  minutes,  he  acknowledged  the  music  proceeded  from  tw<? 


THE  CHILDREJT  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


45 


servants  of  his,  who  played  on  the  clarinet  and  French  horn,  and 
were  stationed  in  a dell  of  the  opposite  mountain.  Notwithstand- 
ing all  her  former  thoughts  to  the  contrary,  Amanda  now  con- 
ceived a strong  suspicion  that  Lord  Mortimer  was  really  the  per- 
son who  had  serenaded  her  ; that  she  conceived  pleasure  from  the 
idea  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say ; she  had  reason  soon  to  find  she 
was  not  mistaken.  Lord  Mortimer  solicited  her  for  the  Lady’s 
song  in  Comus,  saying  the  present  situation  was  peculiarly 
adapted  to  it  ; on  her  hesitating,  he  told  her  she  had  no  plea  to 
offer  for  not  complying,  as  he  himself  had  heard  her  enchanting 
powers  in  it.  Amanda  started,  and  eagerly  inquired  when  or  by 
what  means.  It  was  too  late  for  his  lordship  to  recede  ; and  he 
not  only  confessed  his  concealment  near  the  music  room,  but  his 
visit  to  her  window.  A soft  confusion,  intermingled  with 
pleasure,  pervaded  the  soul  of  Amanda  at  this  confession  : and  it 
was  some  time  ere  she  was  sufficiently  composed  to  comply  with 
Lord  Mortimer’s  solicitations  for  her  to  sing  ; she  at  last  allowed 
him  to  lead  her  to  the  center  of  a little  rustic  bridge  thrown  over 
the  stream,  from  whence  her  voice  could  be  sufficiently  distin- 
guished for  the  music  to  keep  time  to  it,  as  Lord  Mortimer  had 
directed.  Her  plaintive  and  harmonious  invocation,  answered  by 
the  low  breathing  of  the  clarinet,  which  appeared  like  the  softest 
echo  of  the  mountain,  had  the  finest  effect  imaginable,  and  ‘ took 
the  imprisoned  soul,  and  wrapped  it  in  Elysium.’ 

Lord  Mortimer,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  found  himself  at  a 
loss  to  express  what  he  felt  : he  conducted  her  back  to  the  seat, 
where,  to  her  astonishment,  she  beheld  friuts,  ices,  and  creams, 
laid  out,  as  if  by  the  hand  of  magic,  for  no  mortal  appeared  near 
the  spot.  Dusky  twilight  now  warned  her  to  return  home  ; but 
Lord  Mortimer  would  not  suffer  her  to  depart  till  she  had  par- 
taken of  this  collation. 

He  was  not  by  any  means  satisfied  with  the  idea  of  only  behold- 
ing her  for  an  hour  or  two  of  an  evening  ; and  when  they  came 
near  the  cottage,  desired  to  know  whether  it  was  to  chance  alone 
he  was  in  future  to  be  indebted  for  seeing  her.  Again  he  en- 
treated permission  to  visit  her  sometimes  of  a morning,  promis- 
ing he  would  never  disturb  her  avocations,  but  would  be  satisfied 
merely  to  sit  and  read  to  her,  whenever  she  chose  to  work,  and 
felt  herself  inclined  for  that  amusement  : Amanda’s  refusals  grew 
fainter  ; and  at  last  she  said,  on  the  above-mentioned  conditions, 
he  might  sometimes  come.  That  he  availed  himself  of  this  per- 
mission, is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  ; and  from  this  time  few 
hours  passed  without  their  seeing  each  other. 

The  cold  reserve  of  Amanda  by  degrees  wore  away ; from  her 
knowledge  of  his  family,  she  considered  him  as  more  than  a new 
or  common  acquaintance.  The  emotions  she  felt  for  him,  she 


46 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


thought  sanctioned  by  that  knowledge,  and  the  gratitude  she  felt 
for  Lord  Cherbury  for  his  former  conduct  to  her  father,  which 
claimed,  she  thought,  her  respect  and  esteem  for  so  near  and  valu- 
able a connection  of  his ; the  worth,  too,  she  could  not  avoid  ac- 
knowledging to  herself,  of  Lord  Mortimer,  would,  of  itself  alone,, 
have  authorized  them.  Her  heart  felt  he  was  one  of  the  most  amia- 
ble, most  pleasing  of  men ; she  could  scarcely  disguise,  in  any  de- 
gree, the  lively  pleasure  she  experienced  in  his  society ; nay,  she 
scarcely  thought  it  necessary  to  disguise  it,  for  it  resulted  as  much 
from  innocence  as  sensibility,  and  was  placed  to  the  account  of 
friendship.  But  Lord  Mortimer  was  too  penetrating  not  soon  to 
perceive  he  might  ascribe  it  to  a softer  impulse ; with  the  most 
delicate  attention,  the  most  tender  regard,  he  daily,  nay,  hourly,, 
insinuated  himself  into  her  heart,  and  secured  for  himself  an  inter- 
est in  it,  ere  she  was  aware,  which  the  elforts  of  subsequent  reso- 
lution could  not  overcome.  He  was  the  companion  of  her  ram- 
bles, the  alleviator  of  her  griefs ; the  care  w^hich  so  often  saddened 
her  brow  always  vanished  at  his  presence,  and  in  conversing  with 
him  she  forgot  every  cause  of  sorrow . 

He  once  or  twice  delicately  hinted  at  those  circumstances*  which 
at  his  first  visit  she  had  mentioned,  as  sufficiently  distressing  to 
bewilder  her  recollection.  Amanda,  with  blushes,  always  shrunk 
from  the  subject,  sickening  at  the  idea  of  his  knowing  that  her 
father  depended  on  his  for  future  support.  If  he  ever  addressed 
her  seriously  on  the  subject  of  the  regard  ho  professed  for  her 
(which,  from  his  attentions,  she  could  not  help  sometimes  flatter- 
ing herself  would  be  the  case),  then,  indeed,  there  would  be  no 
longer  room  for  concealment;  but,  except  such  a circumstance 
took  place,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  make  any  humiliating 
discovery. 

Tudor  G-rove  was  the  favorite  scene  of  their  rambles;  sometimes; 
she  allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  the  music  room ; but  as  these  visits 
were  not  frequent,  a lute  was  brought  from  it  to  the  cottage,  and  in 
the  recess  in  the  garden  she  often  sung  and  played  for  the  enrapt- 
ured Mortimer ; there,  too,  he  frequently  read  for  her,  always  select- 
ing some  elegant  and  pathetic  piece  of  poetry’',  to  which  the  har- 
mony of  his  voice  gave  additional  charms;  a voice  which  sunk 
into  the  heart  of  Amanda,  and  interested  her  sensibility  oven  more 
than  the  subject  he  perused. 

Often  straying  to  the  valley’s  verge,  as  they  contemplated  the 
lovely  prospect  around,  only  bounded  by  distant  and  stupendous 
mountains.  Lord  Mortimer,  in  strains  of  eloquence  would  des- 
cribe the  beautiful  scenes  and  extensive  landscapes  beyond  them ; 
and  whenever  Amanda  expressed  a wish  (as  she  sometimes  would 
from  thoughtless  innocence)  of  viewing  them,  he  would  softly 
and  wish  he  was  to  be  her  guide  to  them ; as  to  point  out 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


47 


beauties  to  a refined  and  cultivated  mind  like  hers  would  be  to 
him  the  greatest  pleasure  he  could  possibly  experience.  Seated 
sometimes  on  the  brow  of  a shrubby  hill,  as  they  viewed  the 
scattered  hamlets  beneath,  he  would  expatiate  on  the  pleasure  he 
conceived  there  must  be  in  passing  a tranquil  life  with  one  lovely 
and  beloved  object : his  insidious  eyes,  turned  toward  Amanda,  at 
these  minutes,  seemed  to  say,  she  was  the  being  who  could  realize 
all  the  ideas  he  entertained  of  such  a life;  and  when  he  asked  her 
opinion  of  his  sentiments,  her  disordered  blushes,  and  faltering 
accents,  too  plainly  betrayed  her  conscious  feelings.  Every 
delicacy  which  Tudor  Hall  contained  was  daily  sent  to  the  cottage, 
notwithstanding  Amanda’s  prohibition  to  the  contrary ; and  some- 
times  Lord  Mortimer  was  permitted  to  dine  with  her  in  the  recess. 
Three  weeks  spent  in  this  familiar  manner,  endeared  and  attached 
them  to  each  other  more  than  months  would  have  done  passed  m 
situations  liable  to  interruption. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

She  alone 

Heard,  felt,  and  seen,  possesses  every  thought* 

Fills  every  sense,  and  pants  in  every  vein. 

Books  are  but  formal  dullness,  tedious  friends. 

And  sad  amid  the  social  band  he  sits, 

Lonely  and  unattentive.  From  his  tongue 
The  unfinished  period  falls,  while,  borne  away 
On  swelling  thoughts  his  wafted  spirit  flies 
To  the  vain  bosom  of  his  distant  fair.— Thomson. 

Howel  was  no  stranger  to  the  manner  in  which  hours  rolled 
away  at  the  cottage ; he  hovered  round  it,  and  seized  every  inter- 
val of  Lord  Mortimer’s  absence  to  present  himself  before  Amanda; 
his  emotions  betrayed  his  feelings,  and  Amanda  affected  reserve 
toward  him,  in  hopes  of  suppressing  his  passion ; a passion,  she 
now  began  to  think,  when  hopeless,  must  be  dreadful. 

Howel  was  a prey  to  melancholy ; but  not  for  himself  alone  did 
he  mourn ; fears  for  the  safety  and  happiness  of  Amanda  added 
to  his  dejection:  he  dreaded  that  Lord  Mortimer,  perhaps,  like 
too  many  of  the  fashionable  men,  might  make  no  scruple  of  avail- 
ing  himself  of  any  advantage  which  could  be  derived  from  a 
predilection  in  his  favor. 

He  knew  him,  it  is  true,  to  be  amiable;  but  in  opposition  to 
that,  he  knew  him  to  be  volatile,  and  sometimes  wild,  and 
trembled  for  the  unsuspecting  credulity  of  Amanda.  ‘ Though 
lost  to  me,’  exclaimed  the  unhappy  young  man,  ‘ oh  never,  sweet- 
est Amanda,  mayest  thou  be  lost  to  thyself ! ’ 

He  had  received  many  proofs  of  esteem  and  friendship  from 
Lord  Mortimer;  he  therefore  studied  how  he  might  admonish 
without  offending,  and  save  i^manda  without  injuring  himself 


48 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


It  at  last  occurred  to  him  that  the  pulpit  would  be  the  surest  way 
of  effecting  his  wishes,  where  the  subject,  addressed  to  all,  might 
particularly  strike  one  for  whom  it  was  intended,  without  ap- 
pearing as  if  designed  for  that  purpose ; and  timely  convince  him, 
if,  indeed,  he  meditated  any  injurious  design  against  Amanda,  of 
its  flagrance. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  as  he  expected.  Lord  Mortimer  and 
Amanda  attended  service;  his  lordship’s  pew  was  opposite  the 
one  she  sat  in,  and  we  fear  his  eyes  too  often  wandered  in  that 
direction. 

The  youthful  monitor  at  last  ascended  the  pulpit ; his  text  was 
from  Jeremiah,  and  to  the  following  effect: 

She  weepeth  sore  in  the  night,  and  her  tears  are  on  her  cheeks;  among  all  her  lovers 
she  hath  none  to  comfort  her;  all  her  friends  have  dealt  treacherously  with  her,  they 
are  become  her  enemies. 

After  a slight  introduction,  in  which  he  regretted  that  the  de- 
clension of  moral  principles  demanded  such  an  exhortation  as  he 
was  about  to  give,  he  commenced  his  subject;  he  described  a 
young  female,  adorned  with  beauty  and  innocence,  walking  for- 
ward in  the  path  of  integrity,  which  a virtuous  education  had 
early  marked  for  her  to  take,  and  rejoicing  as  she  went  with  all 
around  her ; when,  in  the  midst  of  happiness,  unexpected  calamity 
suddenly  surprised  and  precipitated  her  from  prosperity  into  the 
deepest  distress:  he  described  the  benefits  she  derived  in  this  try- 
ing period  from  early  implanted  virtue  and  religion  ; taught  by 
them  (he  proceeded)  the  lovely  mourner  turns  not  to  the  world 
for  consolation — no,  she  looks  up  to  her  Creator  for  comfort, 
whose  supporting  aid  is  so  particularly  promised  to  afflicted  worth. 
Cheered  by  them,  she  is  able  to  exert  her  little  talents  of  genius 
and  taste,  r.nd  draw  upon  industry  for  her  future  support;  her 
active  virtues,  he  thinks  the  best  proof  of  submission  she  can  give 
to  the  will  of  Heaven;  and  in  the  laudable  exertions  she  finds  a 
conscious  peace,  which  the  mere  possession  of  fortune  could  never 
bestow.  While  thus  employed,  a son  of  perfidy  sees  and  marks 
her  for  his  prey,  because  she  is  at  once  lovely  and  helpless : her 
unsuspecting  credulity  lays  her  open  to  his  arts,  and  his  blandish- 
ments by  degrees  allure  her  heart.  The  snare  which  he  has  spread 
at  last  involves  her;  with  the  inconstancy  of  libertinism  he  soon 
deserts  her;  and  again  is  she  plunged  into  distress.  But  mark  the 
-difference  of  her  first  and  second  fall : conscience  no  longer  lends 
its  opposing  aid  to  stem  her  sorrow,  despair  instead  of  hope  arises ; 
without  one  friend  to  soothe  the  pangs  of  death,  one  pitying  soul 
to  whisper  peace  to  her  departing  spirit ; insulted,  too,  perhaps,  by 
«ome  unfeeling  being,  whom  want  of  similar  temptations  alone 
perhaps  saved  from  similar  imprudence,  she  sinks  an  early  victim 
to  wretchedness. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY*  4$ 

Howel  paused ; the  fullness  of  his  heart  mounted  to  his  eyes, 
"which  involuntarily  turned  and  rested  upon  Amanda.  Interested 
by  this  simple  and  pathetic  eloquence,  she  had  risen,  and  leaned 
over  the  pew,  her  head  resting  on  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  fastened 
on  his  face.  Lord  Mortimer  had  also  risen,  and  alternately  gazed 
upon  Howel  and  Amanda,  particularly  watching  the  latter,  to 
see  how  the  subject  would  affect  her.  He  at  last  saw  the  teai*s 
trickling  down  her  cheeks : the  distresses  of  her  own  situation, 
and  the  stratagems  of  Belgrave,  made  her,  in  some  respects,  per- 
ceive a resemblance  between  herself  and  the  picture  Howel  had 
drawn.  Lord  Mortimer  was  unutterably  affected  by  her  tears,  a 
faint  sickness  seized  him,  he  sunk  upon  the  seat,  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  handkerchief,  to  hide  his  emotion ; but  by  the  time 
service  was  over  it  was  pretty  well  dissipated:  Amanda  returned 
home,  and  his  lordship  waited  for  Howel’s  coming  out  of  church. 
‘What  the  devil,  Howel,’  said  he,  ‘did  you  mean,  by  giving  us 
such  an  exhortation?  Have  you  discovered  any  affair  going  on 
between  any  of  your  rustic  neighbors?  ’ The  parson  colored,  but 
remained  silent;  Lord  Mortimer  rallied,  him  a little  more,  and 
then  departed;  but  his  gayety  was  only  assumed. 

On  his  first  acquaintance  with  Amanda,  in  consequence  of  what 
he  heard  from  Mrs.  Abergwilly,  and  observed  himself,  he  had 
been  tempted  to  think  she  was  involved  in  mystery : and  what 
but  impropriety,  he  thought,  could  occasion  mystery.  To  see  so 
young,  so  lovely,  so  elegant  a creature  an  inmate  of  a sequestered 
cottage,  associating  with  people  (in  manners  at  least)  so  infinitely 
beneath  her;  to  see  her  trembling  and  blushing,  if  a word  was 
dropped  that  seemed  tending  to  inquire  into  her  motives  for  retire- 
ment; all  these  circumstances,  I say,  considered,  naturally  excited 
a suspicion  injurious  to  her  in  the  mind  of  Lord  Mortimer;  and 
he  was  tempted  to  think  some  deviation  from  prudence  had,  by 
depriving  her  of  the  favor  of  her  friends,  made  her  retire  to 
obscurity;  and  that  she  would  not  dislike  an  opportunity  of 
emerging  from  it,  he  could  not  help  thinking.  In  consequence 
of  these  ideas,  he  could  not  think  himself  very  culpable  in  en- 
couraging the  wishes  her  loveliness  gave  rise  to;  besides,  he  had 
some  reason  to  suspect  she  desired  to  inspire  him  with  these 
wishes;  for  Mrs.  Abergwilly  told  him  she  had  informed  Mrs. 
Edwin  of  his  arrival;  an  information  he  could  not  doubt  her 
having  immediately  communicated  to  Amanda;  therefore  her 
continuing  to  come  to  the  hall  seemed  as  if  she  wished  to  throw 
herself  in  his  way.  Mrs.  Edwin  had  indeed  been  told  of  his  ar- 
ival,  but  concealed  it  from  Amanda,  that  she  should  not  be  dis- 
appointed of  going  to  the  hall,  which  she  knew,  if  once  informed 
of  it,  she  would  not  go  to. 

’Tis  tnie.  Lord  Mortimer  saw  Amanda  wore  fat  leasL  the 


50 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


blance  of  innocence:  but  this  could  not  remove  his  suspicions,  SQ 
often  had  he  seen  it  assumed  to  hide  the  artful,  stratagems  of  a 
depraved  heart. 

Ah  ! why  will  the  lovely  female,  adorned  with  all  that  heaven 
and  earth  can  bestow  to  render  her  amiable,  overleap  the  modesty 
of  nature,  and  by  levity  and  boldness  lose  all  pretensions  to  the 
esteem  which  would  otherwise  be  an  involuntary  tribute. 

Nor  is  it  herself  alone  she  injures  ; she  hurts  each  child  of 
purity,  helps  to  point  the  sting  of  ridicule,  and  weave  the  web  of 
art. 

We  shun  the  blazing  sun,  but  court  his  tempered  beams  ; the 
rose,  which  glares  upon  the  day,  is  never  so  much  sought  as  the 
bud  en wrapt  in  the  foliage  ; and,  to  use  the  expression  of  a late 
much-admired  author,  ‘ The  retiring  graces  have  ever  been  reck- 
oned the  most  beautiful.’ 

He  had  never  heard  the  earl  mention  a person  of  the  name  of 
Dunford  ; and  he  knew  not,  or  rather  suspected,  little  credit  was  to 
be  given  to  her  assertion  of  an  intimacy  between  them,  particu- 
larly as  he  saw  her,  whenever  the  subject  was  mentioned,  shrink- 
ing from  it  in  the  greatest  confusion. 

Her  reserve  he  imputed  to  pretense  ; and  flattering  himself  it 
would  soon  wear  off,  determined  for  the  present  at  least  to  humor 
her  affectation. 

With  such  ideas,  such  sentiments,  had  Lord  Mortimer’s  first 
visits  to  Amanda  commenced  : but  they  experienced  an  immedi- 
ate change  as  the  decreasing  reserve  of  her  manners  gave  him 
greater  and  more  frequent  opportunities  of  discovering  her 
mental  perfections  ; the  strength  of  her  understanding,  the  just- 
ness of  her  remarks,  the  liveliness  of  her  fancy,  above  all,  the 
purity  which  mingled  in  every  sentiment,  and  the  modesty  which 
accompanied  every  word,  filled  him  with  delight  and  amazement ; 
his  doubts  gradually  lessened,  and  at  last  vanished,  and  with  them 
every  design  which  they  alone  had  ever  given  rise  to.  Esteem 
was  now  united  to  love,  and  real  respect  to  admiration  : in  her 
society  he  only  was  happy,  and  thought  not,  or  rather  would  not 
suffer  himself  to  think,  on  the  consequences  of  such  an  attachment. 
It  might  be  said,  he  was  entranced  in  pleasure,  from  which  Howel 
completely  roused  him,  and  made  him  seriously  ask  his  heart, 
what  were  his  intentions  relative  to  Amanda.  Of  such  views 
as  he  perceived  Howei  suspected  him  of  harboring,  his  conscience 
entirely  acquitted  him  ; yet  so  great  were  the  obstacles  he  knew 
in  the  way  of  an  union  between  him  and  Amanda,  that  he  almost 
regretted  (as  everyone  does,  who  acts  against  their  better  judg- 
ment) that  he  had  not  fled  at  the  first  intimation  of  his  danger. 
So  truly  formidable  indeed  did  these  obstacles  appear,  that  he  at 
^imes  resolved  to  break  with  Amanda,  if  he  could  fix  upon  an| 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  51 

plan  for  doing  so,  without  injuring  his  honor,  after  the  great  itlx 
tention  he  had  paid  her. 

Ere  he  came  to  any  final  determination,  however,  he  resolved 
to  try  and  discover  her  real  situation  : if  he  even  left  her,  it 
would  be  a satisfaction  to  his  heart  to  know  whether  his  friend- 
ship could  be  serviceable  : and  if  an  opposite  measure  was  his 
plan,  it  could  never  be  put  in  execution  without  the  desired  in- 
formation. He  accordingly  wrote  to  his  sister,  Lady  Araminta 
Dormer,  who  was  then  in  the  country  with  Lord  Cherbury,  re- 
questing she  would  inquire  from  his  father  whether  he  knew  a 
person  of  the  name  of  Dunford  ; and  if  he  did,  what  his  situation 
and  family  were.  Lord  Mortimer  begged  her  ladyship  not  to 
mention  the  inquiries  being  dictated  by  him,  and  promised  at 
some  future  period  to  explain  the  reason  of  them.  He  still  con- 
tinued his  assiduities  to  Amanda,  and  at  the  expected  time  re- 
ceived an  answer  to  his  letter  ; but  how  was  he  shocked  and 
alarmed,  when  informed  Lord  Cherbury  never  knew  a person  of 
the  name  of  Dunford  ! His  doubts  began  to  revive;  but  before  he 
yielded  entirely  to  them,  he  resolved  to  go  to  Amanda,  and  in- 
quire from  her,  in  the  most  explicit  terms,  how,  and  at  what  time, 
her  father  and  the  earl  had  become  acquainted ; determined,  if 
she  answered  him  without  embarrassment,  to  mention  to  his  sis- 
ter whatever  circumstances  she  related,  lest  a forgetfulness  of 
them  alone  had  made  the  earl  deny  his  knowledge  of  Dunford. 
Just  as  he  was  quitting  the  grove  with  this  intent,  he  espied 
Edwin  and  his  wife  coming  down  a cross-road  from  the  village, 
where  they  had  been  with  poultry  and  vegetables.  It  instantly 
occurred  to  him  that  these  people,  in  the  simplicity  of  their  hearts, 
might  unfold  the  real  situation  of  Amanda,  and  save  him  the 
painful  necessity  of  making  inquiries,  which  she,  perhaps,  would 
not  answer,  v/ithout  his  real  motives  for  making  them  were  as- 
signed, which  was  what  he  could  not  think  of  doing. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  proceeding,  he  stopped  till  they  came  up 
to  him,  and  then  with  the  most  engaging  affability  addresse'  ■ i:hem^ 
inquiring  whether  they  had  been  successful  in  the  disposal  of 
their  goods.  They  answered  bowing  and  curtseying,  and  he  then 
insisted  that,  as  they  appeared  tired,  they  should  repair  to  the  hall, 
and  rest  themselves.  This  was  too  great  an  honor  to  be  refused; 
and  they  followed  their  noble  conductor,  who  hastened  forward 
to  order  refreshment  into  a parlor  for  them.  The  nurse,  who  in 
her  own  way  was  a cunning  woman,  instantly  suspected  from, 
the  great  and  uncommon  attention  of  Lord  Mortimer,  that  he 
wanted  to  inquire  into  the  situation  of  Amanda.  As  soon  as  she 
saw  him  at  some  distance,  ‘ David,’  cried  she,  ‘ as  sure  as  eggs  are 
'iggs  ’ (unpinning  her  white  apron,  and  smoothing  it  nicely  down 
Ti’  she  spoke),  ‘ this  young  lort  wants  to  have  our  company,  that 


52 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


he  may  find  out  something  apout  Miss  Amanda.  Ah,  pless  her 
pretty  face,  I thought  how  it  would  be ; but  we  must  be  as  cun- 
ning as  foxes,  and  not  tell  too  much  nor  too  little,  because  if  we 
told  too  much  it  would  offend  her,  and  she  would  ask  us  how  we 
got  all  our  intelligence,  and  would  not  think  us  over  and  above 
genteel,  when  she  heard  we  had  sifted  Jemmy  Hawthorn  for  it, 
when  he  came  down  from  London  with  her.  All  we  must  do  is 
just  to  drop  some  hints,  as  it  were,  of  her  situation,  and  then  his 
lortship,  to  be  sure,  will  make  his  advantage  of  them,  and  ask  her 
everything  apout  herself,  and  then  she  will  tell  him  of  her  own 
accord:  so,  David,  mind  what  you  say,  I charge  you.’  ‘ Ay,  ay,’ 
cried  David,  ‘ leave  me  alone;  I’ll  wa'rrant  you  you’ll  always  find 
ail  old  soldier  ’cute  enough  for  anypoty.’ 

Wlien  they  reached  the  Hall,  they  were  shown  into  a parlor, 
where  Lord  Mortimer  was  expecting  them:  with  difiiculty  he 
made  them  sit  down  at  the  table,  where  meat  and  wine  were  laid 
out  for  them.  After  they  had  partaken  of  them.  Lord  Mortimer 
began  with  asking  Edwin  some  questions  about  his  farm  (for  he 
was  a tenant  on  the  Tudor  estate),  and  whether  there  was  any- 
thing wanting  to  render  it  more  comfortable.  ‘ No,’  Edwin  re- 
plied, with  a low  bow,  thanking  his  honorable  lordship  for  his  in- 
quiry. Lord  Mortimer  spoke  of  his  family.  ‘ Ay,  Cot  pless  the 
poor  things,’  Edwin  said,  ‘ they  were,  to  be  sure,  a fine  thriving 
set  of  children.’'  Still  Lord  Mortimer  had  not  touched  on  the  sub- 
ject nearest  his  heart.  He  felt  embarrassed  and  agitated.  At  last, 
with  as  much  composure  as  he  could  assume,  he  asked  how  long 
they  imagined  Miss  Dunford  would  stay  with  them.  Now  was 
the  nurse’s  time  to  speak.  She  had  hitherto  sat  simpering  and 
bowing.  ‘ That  depended  on  circumstances,’ she  said.  ‘ Poor  tear 
young  laty,  though  their  little  cottage  was  so  obscure,  and  so  un- 
like anything  she  had  before  been  accustomed  to,  she  made  herself 
quite  happy  with  it.’  ‘ Her  father  must  miss  her  society  v^ery 
much,’  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer.  ^Tear  heart,  to  be  sure  he 
does,’  cried  nurse.  ‘Well,  strange  things  happen  every  tay;  but 
still  I never  thought  what  did  happen  would  have  happened,  to 
make  the  poor  old  gentleman  and  his  daughter  part.’  ‘What 
happened?’  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  starting  and  suddenly  stop- 
ping in  the  middle  of  the  room,  for  hitherto  he  had  been  walking 
backward  and  forward.  ‘ ’T was  not  her  business,  ’ the  nurse  replied, 
‘ by  no  manner  of  means,  to  be  speaking  about  the  affairs  of  her 
petters ; put  for  all  that  she  could  not  help  saying,  because,  she 
thought  it  a pity  his  lortship,  who  was  so  good  and  so  affable, 
should  remain  in  ignorance  of  everything;  that  Miss  Amanda  was 
not  what  she  appeared  to  be ; no,  if  the  truth  was  told,  not  the  per- 
son she  passed  for  at  all ; but,  Lort,  she  would  never  forgive  me,^ 
cried  the  nurse,  ‘ if  your  lortship  told  her  it  was  from  me  your  lort 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


63 


ship  heard  this.  Poor  tear  thing*,  she  is  very  unwilling  to  have 
her  situation  known,  though  she  is  not  the  first  poty  who  has  met 
with  a pad  man ; and  shame  and  sorrow  be  upon  him  who  tistrest 
herself  and  her  father.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  had  heard  enough : every  doubt,  every  suspicion 
was  realized;  and  he  was  equally  unable  and  unwilling  to  in- 
quire further.  It  was  plain  Amanda  was  unworthy  of  his  esteem ; 
and  to  inquire  into  the  circumstances  which  occasioned  that  un- 
worthiness, would  only  have  tortured  him.  He  rung  the  bell 
abruptly,  and  ordering  Mrs.  Abergwilly  to  attend  the  Edwins^ 
withdrew  immediately  to  another  room.  Now  there  was  an  op- 
portunity for  Lord  Mortimer  to  break  with  Amanda,  without  the 
smallest  imputation  on  his  honor.  Did  it  give  him  pleasure? 
No;  it  filled  him  with  sorrow,  disappointment,  and  anguish  : 
the  softness  of  her  manners,  even  more  than  the  beauty  of  her 
person,  had  fascinated  his  soul,  and  made  him  determine  if  he 
found  her  worthy  (of  which  indeed  he  had  then  but  little  doubt) 
to  cease  not  till  every  obstacle  which  could  impede  their  union 
should  be  overcome.  He  was  inspired  with  indignation  at  the  idea 
of  the  snare  he  imagined  she  had  spread  for  him ; thinking  her 
modesty  all  a pretext  to  draw  him  into  making  honorable  pro- 
posals. As  she  sunk  in  his  esteem,  her  charms  lessened  in  his 
fancy ; and  he  thought  it  would  be  a proper  punishment  for  her,, 
and  a noble  triumph  over  himself,  if  he  conquered,  or  at  least  re- 
sisted his  passion,  and  forsook  her  entirely.  Full  of  this  idea,  and 
influenced  by  resentment  for  her  supposed  deceit,  he  resolved, 
without  longer  delay,  to  fulfill  the  purpose  which  had  brought  him 
into  Wales,  namely,  visiting  his  friend;  but  how  frail  is  resolu- 
tion and  resentment  when  opposed  to  tenderness ! Without  suffer- 
ing himself  to  believe  there  was  the  least  abatement  of  either  in 
his  mind,  he  forbid  the  carriage,  in  a few  minutes  after  he  had 
ordered  it,  merely,  he  persuaded  himself,  for  the  purpose  of  yet 
more  severely?*  mortifying  Amanda : as  his  continuing  a little  longer 
in  the  neighborhood,  without  noticing  her,  might  perhaps  con- 
vince her  she  was  not  quite  so  fascinating  as  she  believed  herself 
to  be.  From  the  time  his  residence  at  Tudor  Hall  was  known,  he 
had  received  constant  invitations  from  the  surrounding  families, 
which  on  Amanda’s  account  he  uniformly  declined.  This  he  re- 
solved should  no  longer  be  the  case : some  were  yet  unanswered 
and  these  he  meant  to  accept,  as  means  indeed  of  keeping  hin^ 
steady  in  his  resolution  of  not  seeing  her,  and  banishing  her  in 
some  degree  from  his  thoughts.  * But  he  could  not  have  fixed  on 
worse  methods  than  these  for  effecting  either  of  his  purposes : the 
society  he  now  mixed  among  was  so  different  from  that  he  had 
lately  been  accustomed  to,  that  he  was  continually  employed  in 
Vywuifif  comparisons  between  them.  He  grew  restless  ; his  ur> 


94r 


THE  CHILDREX  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


happiness  increased ; and  he  at  last  felt  that  if  he  desired  to  ex- 
perience any  comfort,  he  must  no  longer  absent  himself  from 
Amanda ; and  also  that,  if  she  refused  to  accede  to  the  only  pro- 
posals now  in  his  power  to  make  her,  he  would  be  miserable;  so 
essential  did  he  deem  her  society  to  his  happiness ; so  much  was 
he  attached  from  the  softness  and  sweetness  of  her  manners.  At 
the  time  he  finally  determined  to  see  her  again,  he  was  in  a large 
party  at  a Welsh  baronet’s  where  he  had  dined ; and  on  the  rack  of 
impatience  to  put  his  determination  in  practice,  he  retired  early 
and  took  the  road  to  the  cottage. 

Poor  Amanda,  during  this  time,  was  a prey  to  disquietude.  The 
first  day  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  absence,  she  felt  a little  uneasiness, 
but  strove  to  dissipate  it,  by  thinking  business  had  detained  him. 
The  next  morning  she  remained  entirely  at  home,  every  moment 
expecting  to  behold  him ; but  this  expectation  was  totally  destroyed, 
when  from  the  outside  room  she  heard  one  of  the  nurse’s  sons  tell 
of  all  the  company  he  had  met  going  to  Sir  Lewis  at  Slienkin’s, 
and  among  the  rest  Lord  Mortimer,  whose  servants  had  told  him 
the  day  before  their  lord  dined  at  Mr.  Jones’s,  where  there  was  a 
deal  of  company,  and  a grand  ball  in  the  evening.  Amanda’s 
heart  almost  died  within  her  at  these  words;  pleasure  then,  not 
business,  had  prevented  Lord  Mortimer  from  coming  to  her;  these 
amusements  which  he  had  so  often  declared  were  tasteless  to  him, 
from  the  superior  delight  he  experienced  in  her  society.  Either  he 
was  insincere  in  such  expressions,  or  had  now  grown  indifferent. 
She  condemned  herself  for  ever  having  permitted  his  visits,'  or  re- 
ceived his  assiduities ; she  reproached  him  for  ever  having  paid 
those  assiduities,  knowing,  as  he  must,  the  insincerit}^  or  incon- 
stancy of  his  nature.  In  spite  of  wounded  pride,  tears  of  sorrow 
and  disappointment  burst  from  her ; and  her  only  consolation  was, 
that  no  one  observed  her.  Her  hours  passed  heavily  away;  she 
could  not  attend  to  anything;  and  in  the  evening  walked  out  to 
indulge,  in  a lonely  ramble,  the  dejection  of  her  heart : she  turned 
from  Tudor  Hall,  and  took  (without  knowing  it  indeed)  the  very 
road  which  led  to  the  house  where  Lord  Mortimer  had  dined, 
v^ith  slow  and  pensive  steps  she  pursued  her  way,  regardless  of  all 
around  her,  till  an  approaching  footstep  made  her  raise  her  eyes, 
and  she  beheld,  with  equal  surprise  and  confusion,  the  verj  object 
who  was  then  employing  her  thoughts.  Obeying  the  impulse  of 
pride,  she  hastily  turned  away;  till,  recollecting  that  her  pre- 
cipitately avoiding  him  would  at  once  betray  her  sentiments,  she 
paused  to  listen  to  his  passionate  inquiries  after  her  health ; having 
answered  them-with  involuntary  coldness,  she  again  moved  on; 
but  her  progress  was  soon  stopped  by  Lord  Mortimer;  snatching 
her  hand,  he  insisted  on  knowing  why  she  appeared  so  desirous 
to  avoid  him.  Amanda  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  desired  he 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


51 


would  let  her  go.  ‘ Never/  he  exclaimed,  ‘ till  you  wear  another 
face  to  me.  Oh ! did  you  know  the  pain  I have  suffered  since  last 
we  met,  you  would  from  pity,  I am  sure,  treat  me  with  less  cold- 
ness.’ Amanda’s  heart  throbbed  with  sudden  pleasure;  but  she 
soon  silenced  its  emotion,  by  reflecting  that  a declaration  of  un- 
easiness, at  the  very  time  he  was  entering  into  gayety,  had  some- 
thing too  inconsistent  in  it  to  merit  credit.  Hurt  by  supposing 
he  wanted  to  impose  on  her,  she  made  yet  more  violent  efforts  to 
disengage  her  hand;  but  Lord  Mortimer  held  it  too  firmly  for  her 
to  be  successful ; he  saw  she  was  offended,  and  it  gave  him  flatter- 
ing ideas  of  the  estimation  in  which  he  stood  with  her,  since  to  re- 
sent his  neglect  was  the  most  convincing  proof  he  could  receive  of 
the  value  she  set  upon  his  attention.  Without  hurting  her  feelings 
by  a hint  that  he  believed  the  alteration  in  her  manner  occasioned 
his  absence,  in  indirect  terms  he  apologized  for  it,  saying  what  in- 
deed was  partly  true,  that  a letter  lately  received  had  so  ruffled  his 
mind  he  was  quite  unfit  for  her  society,  and  had  therefore  availed 
himself  of  those  hours  of  chagrin  and  uneasiness  to  accept  invi- 
tations, which  at  sometime  or  other  he  must  have  done,  to  avoid 
giving  offense;  and  by  acting  as  he  had  done,  he  reserved  the 
precious  moments  of  returning  tranquillity  for  her  he  adored. 
Ah  I how  readily  do  we  receive  any  apology,  do  we  admit  of  any 
excuse,  that  comes  from  a beloved  object!  Amanda  felt  as  if  a 
weight  was  suddenly  removed  from  her  heart;  her  eyes  were  no 
longer  bent  to  the  earth,  her  cheek  no  longer  pale ; and  a smile, 
the  smile  of  innocence  and  love,  enlivened  all  her  features.  She 
seemed  suddenly  to  forget  her  hand  was  detained  by  Lord  Morti- 
mer, for  no  longer  did  she  attempt  to  free  it ; she  suffered  him 
gently  to  draw  it  within  his,  and  lead  her  to  the  favorite  haunt  in 
Tudor  Grove. 

Pleased,  yet  blushing  and  confused,  she  heard  Lord  Mortimer, 
with  more  energy  than  he  had  ever  yet  expressed  himself  with, 
declare  the  pain  he  suffered  the  days  he  saw  her  not.  From  his 
ardent,  his  passionate  expressions,  what  could  the  innocent 
Amanda  infer,  but  that  he  intended,  by  uniting  his  destiny  to 
hers,  to  secure  to  himself  a society  he  so  highly  valued;  what 
■could  she  infer,  but  that  he  meant  immediately  to  speak  in  explicit 
terms?  The  idea  was  too  pleasing  to  be  received  in  tranquillity, 
and  her  whole  soul  felt  agitated.  While  they  pursued  their  way 
through  Tudor  Grove,  the  sky,  which  had  been  lowering  the 
whole  day,  became  suddenly  more  darkened,  and  by  its  increasing 
gloom  foretold  an  approaching  storm.  Lord  Mortimer  no  longer 
opposed  Amanda’s  returning  home;  but  scarcely  had  they  turned 
for  that  purpose,  ere  the  vivid  lightning  fiashed  across  their  path, 
and  the  thunder  awfully  reverberated  amongst  the  hills.  Th^ 
Hall  was  much  nearer  than  the  cottage,  and  Lord  Mortimer, 


56 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


throwing  his  arm  round  Amanda’s  waist,  hurried  her  to  it;  but 
ere  they  reached  the  library,  whose  door  was  the  first  they  came 
to,  the  rain  began  pouring  with  violence.  Lord  Mortimer 
snatched  off  Amanda’s  wet  hat  and  cloak ; the  rest  of  her  clothes 
w^ere  quite  dry ; and  immediately  ordered  tea  and  coffee,  c.s  she 
refused  any  other  refreshments;  he  dismissed  the  attendants,  that 
he  might,  without  observation  or  restraint,  enjoy  her  society. 
As  she  presided  at  the  tea  table,  his  eyes,  with  the  fondest  rap- 
ture, were  fastened  on  her  face,  which  never  had  appeared  more 
lovely ; exercise  had  heightened  the  pale  tint  of  her  cheek,  over 
which  her  glossy  hair  curled  in  beautiful  disorder;  the  unusual 
glow  gave  a greater  radiance  to  her  eyes,  whose  soft  confusion 
denoted  the  pleasure  she  experienced  from  the  attention  of  Lord 
Mortimer.  He  restrained  not,  he  could  not  restrain,  the  feelings 
of  his  soul.  ‘ Oh,  what  happiness!  ’ he  exclaimed.  ‘No  wonder 
I found  all  society  tasteless,  after  having  experienced  yours. 
Where  could  I find  such  softness,  yet  such  sensibility;  such 
sweetness,  yet  such  animation ; such  beauty,  yet  such  apparent 
unconsciousness  of  it?  Oh,  my  Amanda,  smoothly  must  that  life 
glide  on,  whose  destiny  you  shall  share!  ’ 

Amanda  endeavored  to  check  these  transports,  yet  secretly^ 
they  filled  her  with  delight,  for  she  considered  them  as  the  sin- 
cere effusions  of  honorable  love.  Present  happiness,  however, 
could  not  render  her, forgetful  of  propriety:  by  the  time  tea  was 
over,  the  evening  began  to  clear,  and  she  protested  she  must  de- 
part. Lord  Mortimer  protested  against  this  for  some  time  longer, 
and  at  last  brought  her  to  the  window  to  convince  her  there  was 
still  a slight  rain  falling.  He  promised  to  see  her  home  as  soon 
as  it  was  over,  and  entreated,  in  the  mean  time,  she  would  gratify 
him  with  a song.  Amanda  did  not  refuse;  but  the  raptures  he 
expressed,  while  she  sung,  she  thought  too  violent,  and  rose  from 
the  piano  when  she  had  concluded,  in  spite  of  his  entreaties  to 
the  contrary.  She  insisted  on  getting  her  hat  and  cloak,  which, 
had  been  sent  to  Mrs.  Abergwilly  to  dry ; Lord  Mortimer  at  last 
reluctantly  went  out  to  obey  her. 

Amanda  walked  to  the  window,  the  prospect  from  it  was  lovely; 
the  evening  was  now  perfectly  serene;  a few  light  clouds  alone 
floated  in  the  sky,  their  lucid  skirts  tinged  with  purple  rays  from 
the  declining  sun ; the  trees  wore  a brighter  green,  and  the  dew- 
drop  that  had  heightened  their  verdure,  yet  glittered  on  their 
sprays ; across  a distant  valley  was  extended  a beautiful  rainbow, 
the  sacred  record  of  Heaven’s  covenant  with  man.  All  nature 
appeared  revived  and  animated;  the  birds  now  warbled  their 
closing  lays,  and  the  bleating  of  the  cattle  was  heard  from  the 
neighboring  hills.  ‘ Oh ! how  sweet,  how  lovely  is  the  dewy 
landscape ! ’ exclaimed  Amanda,  with  that  delight  which  scenes 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  57 

cf  calm  and  vernal  nature  never  fail  of  raising  in  minds  of  piety 
and  tenderness. 

‘ ’Tis  lovely,  indeed ! ’ repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  who  returned 
at  the  moment,  assuring  her  the  things  would  be  sent  in  directly. 
* I admire  the  prospect,’  continued  he,  ‘ because  you  gaze  upon  it 
with  me;  were  you  absent,  like  every  other  charm,  it  would  lose 
its  beauty,  and  become  tasteless  to  me.  Tell  me,  ’ cried  he,  gently 
enciixjling  her  waist,  ‘ why  this  hurry,  why  this  wish  to  leave 
me?  Do  you  expect  elsewhere  to  meet  with  a being  who  will  value 
your  society  more  highly  than  I do?  Do  you  expect  to  meet  with 
a heart  more  fondly,  more  firmly  attached  to  you  than  mine? 
Oh,  my  Amanda,  if  you  do,  how  mistaken  are  such  expectations ! ’ 

Amanda  blushed  and  averted  her  head,  unable  to  speak. 

^ Ah,  why,’  continued  he,  pursuing  her  averted  eyes  with  his, 
^should  we  create  uneasiness  to  ourselves,  by  again  separating? ' 

Amanda  looked  up  at  these  words  with  involuntary  surprise  in 
her  countenance.  Lord  Mortimer  understood  it;  he  saw  she  had 
hitherto  deluded  herself  with  thinking  his  intentions  toward  her 
very  different  from  what  they  really  were;  to  suffer  her  longer 
to  deceive  herself  would,  he  thought,  be  cruelty.  Straining  her 
to  his  beating  heart,  he  imprinted  a kiss  on  her  tremulous  lips, 
and  softly  told  her,  that  the  life,  which  without  her  would  lose 
half  its  charms,  should  be  devoted  to  her  service;  and  that  his 
fortune,  like  his  heart,  should  be  in  her  possession.  Trembling 
while  she  struggled  to  free  herself  from  his  arms,  Amanda  de- 
manded what  he  meant;  her  manner  somewhat  surprised  and 
confused  him ; but  recollecting  this  was  the  moment  for  expla- 
nation, he,  though  with  half-averted  eyes,  declared  his  hopes — his 
wishes  and  intentions.  Surprise,  horror,  and  indignation,  for 
a few  minutes  overpowered  Amanda;  but  suddenly  recovering 
her  scattered  senses,  with  a strength  greater  than  she  had  ever 
before  felt,  she  burst  from  him,  and  attempted  to  rush  from  the 
room.  Lord  Mortimer  caught  hold  of  her.  ‘ Whither  are  you 
going,  Amanda?  ’ exclaimed  he,  affrighted  by  her  manner. 

‘ From  the  basest  of  men,  ’ cried  she  struggling  to  disengage 
herself. 

He  shut  the  door,  and  forced  her  back  to  a chair;  he  was 
shocked — amazed— and  confounded  by  her  looks;  no  art  could 
have  assumed  such  a semblance  of  sorrow  as  she  now  wore;  no 
feelings  but  those  of  the  most  delicate  nature,  have  expressed 
such  emotion  as  she  now  betrayed : the  enlivening  bloom  of  her 
cheeks  was  fled,  and  succeeded  by  a deadly  paleness;  and  her  soft 
eyes,  robbed  of  ,their  luster,  were  bent  to  the  ground  with  the 
deepest  expression  of  woe.  Lord  Mortimer  began  to  think  he  had 
mistaken,  if  not  her  character,  her  disposition;  and  the  idea  of 
having  insulted  either  purity  or  penitence,  was  like  a dagger  ta 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


3^8 

his  heart.  * Oh,  my  love ! ’ he  exclaimed,  laying  his  hand  on  hei 
trembling  one,  ‘ what  do  you  mean  by  departing  so  abruptly?’ 

‘ My  meaning,  my  lord,’  cried  she,  rising  and  shaking  liis  hand 
from  hers,  ‘ is  now  as  obvious  as  your  own — I seek,  forever,  to 
quit  a man  who,  under  the  appearance  of  delicate  attention,  medi- 
tated so  base  a scheme  against  me.  My  credulity  may  havc> 
yielded  you  amusement,  but  it  has  afforded  you  no  triumph  ; the 
tenderness  which  I know  you  think,  which  I shall  not  deny  you^ 
having  inspired  me  with,  as  it  was  excited  by  imaginary  virtues^ 
so  it  vanished  with  the  illusion  which  gave  it  birth;  what  then 
was  innocent  would  now  be  guilty.  O Heavens!’  continued 
Amanda,  clasping  her  hands  together  in  a sudden  agony  of  tears^ 
‘is  it  me,  the  helpless  child  of  sorrow,  Lord  Mortimer  sought 
as  a victim  to  illicit  love ! Is  it  the  son  of  Lord  Cherbury  destined 
such  a blow  against  the  unfortunate  Fitzalan?  ’ 

Lord  Mortimer  started.  ‘ Fitzalan ! ’ repeated  he,  ‘ OhV 
Amanda,  why  did  you  conceal  your  real  name?  And  what  am  I 
to  infer  from  your  having  done  so?  ’ 

‘What  you  please,  my  lord,’  cried  she.  ‘The  opinion  of  ^ 
person  I despise  can  be  of  little  consequence  to  me;  yet,’  con» 
tinned  she,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  herself,  ‘ that  you  have 
no  plea  for  extenuating  your  conduct,  know  that  my  name  was 
concealed  by  the  desire  of  my  father,  who,  involved  in  unex- 
pected distress,  wished  me  to  adopt  another  till  his  affairs  were 
settled.’ 

. ‘ This  concealment  has  undone  me,’  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer. 

‘ It  has  led  me  into  an  error,  I shall  never  cease  repenting.  O 
Amanda  I deign  to  listen  to  the  circumstances  which  occasioned 
this  error ; and  you  will  then,  I am  sure,  think  me  at  least  less 
culpable  than  I now  appear  to  be ; you  will  then,  perhaps,  allow 
me  to  make  some  atonement.’ 

‘No,  my  lord,’  cried  Amanda,  ‘ willingly  I will  not  allow  my 
self  to  be  deceived  ; for  without  deceit,  I am  convinced  you  could 
mention  no  circumstance  which  could  possibly  palliate  your  con- 
duct, Dr  what  you  so  gently  term  an  error.  Had  I,  my  lord,  by 
art  or  coquetry,  sought  to  attract  your  notice,  your  crime  would 
have  been  palliated  ; but  when  you  pursued,  I retired  ; and  the 
knowledge  of  your  being  Lord  Cherbury’s  son  first  induced  me  to 
receive  your  visits.  I suffered  their  continuance,  because  I thought 
you  amiable  ; sad  mistake  ! Oh  I cruel,  ungenerous  Mortimer, 
how  have  you  abused  my  unsuspecting  confidence  ! ’ 

As  she  ended  these  words,  she  moved  toward  the  door.  Awed 
by  her  manner,  confounded  by  her  reproaches,  tortured  by  re* 
morse  and  half  offended  at  her  refusing  to  hear  his  vindication* 
he  no  longer  attempted  to  prevent  her  quitting  the  apartment  ^ 
he  followed  her,  however,  from  it.  ‘ What  do  you  mean,  mj 
jord/  asked  she,  ‘ by  coming  after  me  ? ’ 


I 


THE  CHILDREN-  OF  THE  ABBEY.  5® 

• I mean  to  see  you  safely  home,’  replied  he,  in  a tone  of  proud 
sullenness. 

• And  is  it  Lord  Mortimer,’  cried  she,  looking*  steadfastly  in  his 
face,  ‘ pretends  to  see  me  safe  ? ’ 

He  stamped,  struck  his  hand  violently  against  his  forehead,  and 
exclaimed,  ‘ I see — I see — I am  despicable  in  your  eyes  ; but, 
Amanda,  I cannot  endure  your  reproaches.  Pause  for  a few  min- 
utes, and  you  will  find  I am  not  so  deserving  of  them  as  you 
imagine,’ 

She  made  no  reply,  but  quickened  her  pace  ; within  a few  yards 
of  the  cottage  Lord  Mortimer  caught  her,  with  a distracted  air. 
^Amanda,’  said  he,  ‘ I cannot  bear  to  part  with  you  in  this  man- 
ner ; you  think  me  the  veriest  villain  on  earth  ; you  will  drive 
me  from  your  heart  ; I shall  become  abhorrent  to  you.’ 

‘Most  assuredly,  my  lord,’  replied  she,  in  a solemn  voice. 

‘ Cannot  compunction  then  extenuate  my  error  ? ’ 

‘’Tis  not  compuncion,  ’tis  regret  you  feel,  for  finding  your 
designs  unsuccessful.’ 

‘ No  ; by  all  that  is  sacred,  ’tis  remorse  for  ever  having  medi- 
tated such  an  injury.  Yet  I again  repeat,  if  you  listen  to  me,  you 
will  find  I am  not  so  culpable  as  you  believe.  Oh  I let  me  be- 
seech you  to  do  so  ; let  me  hope  that  my  life  may  be  devoted  to 
you  alone,  and  that  I may  thus  have  opportunities  of  apologizing 
for  my  conduct.  Oh  I dearest  Amanda,’  kneeling  before  her, 
* drive  me  not  from  you  in  the  hour  of  penitence.’ 

‘ You  plead  in  vain,  my  lord, ’cried  she,  breaking  from  him. 

He  started  in  an  agony  from  the  ground,  and  again  seized  her. 
“ Is  it  thus,’  he  exclaimed,  ‘with  such  unfeeling  coldness  I am 
abandoned  by  Amanda  ? I will  leave  you,  if  you  only  say  I am 
not  detested  by  you  ; if  you  only  say  the  remembrance  of  the 
sweet  hours  we  have  spent  together  will  not  become  hateful  to 
you.’ 

He  was  pale  and  trembled  ; and  a tear  wet  his  cheek.  Amanda’s 
began  to  flow  ; she  averted  her  head,  to  hide  her  emotion  ; but 
be  had  perceived  it.  ‘ You  weep,  my  Amanda,’  said  he,  ‘ and  you 
feel  the  influence  of  pity  ! ’ 

‘ No,  no,’  cried  she,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate  ; ‘ I will  ac“ 
knowledge,*  continued  she,  ‘ I believe  you  possessed  of  sensibility; 
and  an  anticipation  of  the  painful  feelings  it  will  excite  on  the  re- 
flection of  your  conduct  to  me,  now  stops  my  further  reproaches. 
Ah  { my  lord,  timely  profit  by  mental  correction,  nor  ever  again 
encourage  a passion  which  virtue  cannot  sanction  or  reasou 
Justify.* 

Thus  spoke  the  angel ; 

And  the  grave  rebuke,  severe  in  youthful  beauty. 

Added  grace  invincible. 

Amanda  darted  from  Lord  Mortimer  ; and  entering  the  cottaga 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


hastily  closed  the  door.  Her  looks  terrified  the  nurse,  who  wae 
the  only  one  of  the  family  up,  and  who,  by  means  of  one  of  her 
sons,  had  discovered  that  Amanda  had  taken  refuge  from  the 
thunderstorm  in  Tudor  Hall. 

Amanda  had  neither  hat  nor  cloak  on  ; her  face  was  pale  a& 
death ; her  hair  blown  by  the  wind,  and  wet  from  the  rain,  hung 
disheveled  about  her  ; and  to  the  inquiries  of  her  nurse  she  could 
only  answer  by  sobs  and  tears.  ‘Lack  a tay,’said  the  nurse, 
* what  ails  my  sweet  chilt  ? ’ 

Relieved  by  tears,  Amanda  told  her  nurse  she  was  not  very 
well,  and  that  she  had  been  reflecting  on  the  g^^eat  impropriety 
there  was  in  receiving  Lord  Mortimer’s  visits,  whom  she  begged 
her  nurse,  if  he  came  again,  not  to  admit. 

The  nurse  shook  her  head,  and  said  she  supposed  there  had 
been  some  quarrel  between  them  ; but  if  Lord  Mortimer  had 
done  anything  to  vex  her  tear  chilt,  she  would  make  him  pay 
for  it.  Amanda  charged  her  never  to  address  him  on  such  a sub- 
ject ; and  having  made  her  promise  not  to  admit  him,  she  retired 
to  her  chamber  faint,  weary,  and  distressed.  The  indignity 
offered  her  by  Colonel  Belgrave  had  insulted  her  purity  and 
offended  her  pride,  but  he  had  not  wounded  the  softer  feelings  of 
her  soul ; it  was  Mortimer  alone  had  power  to  work  them  up  to 
agony. 

The  charm  which  had  soothed  her  sorrows  was  fled ; and  while 
she  glowed  with  keen  resentment,  she  wept  from  disappointed 
tenderness.  ‘Alas!  my  father,’ she  cried,  ‘is  this  the  secure 
retreat  you  fondly  thought  you  had  discovered  for  me  ! Sad 
mistake  I Less  had  I to  dread  from  the  audacious  front  of  vice, 
than  the  insidious  form  of  virtue  ; delicacy  shrinking  from  one 
immediately  announced  the  danger  ; but  innocence  inspired  con° 
fidence  in  the  other  ; and  credulity  instead  of  suspicion  occupied 
the  mind.  Am  I doomed  to  be  the  victim  of  deception — and,  except 
thy  honest  tender  heart,  my  father,  find  every  other  fraught 
with  deceit  and  treachery  to  me  ? Alas  ! if  in  the  early  season  of 
youth,  perpetual  perfidy  makes  us  relinquish  candor  and  hope, 
jvhat  charms  can  the  world  retain  ? The  soul  sickening  recoils 
within  itself,  and  no  longer  startles  at  dissolution.  Belgrave  aimed 
at  my  peace— but  Mortimer  alone  had  power  to  pierce  “ the  vital 
vulnerable  heart.”  O Mortimer  I from  you  alone  the  blow  is 
severe — you,  who,  in  divine  language,  I may  say  were  my  guide, 
my  companion,  and  my  familiar  friend.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  now  a prey  to  all  the  pangs  which  an  in- 
genuous  mind,  oppressed  with  a consciousness  of  error,  must  ever 
feel  ; the  most  implacable  vengeance  could  not  devise  a greater 
punishtnent  for  him  than  his  own  thoughts  inflicted  ; the  empire 
of  inordinate  passion  was  overthrown,  and  honor  and  reason  re- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


61 


gained  their  full  and  natural  ascendancy  over  them.  When  he 
reflected  on  the  uniform  appearance  of  innocence  Amanda  had  al- 
ways worn,  he  wondered  at  his  weakness  in  ever  having  doubted 
its  reality — at  his  audacity,  in  ever  having  insulted  it ; when  he 
reflected  on  her  melancholy,  he  shuddered  as  if  having  aggra- 
vated it.  ‘ Your  sorrows,  as  well  as  purity,  my  Amanda,  ’ he 
cried,  ‘ should  have  rendered  you  a sacred  object  to  me.’ 

A ray  of  consolation  darted  into  his  mind  at  the  idea  of  prevail- 
ing on  her  to  listen  to  tht  circumstances  which  had  led  him  into 
a conduct  so  unworthy  of  her  and  himself  ; such  an  explanation, 
he  trusted,  would  regain  her  love  and  confidence,  and  make  her 
accept,  what  he  meant  immediately  to  offer — his  hand  ; for  pride 
and  ambition  could  raise  no  obstacles  to  oppose  this  design  of  rep- 
aration ; his  happiness  depended  on  its  being  accepted.  Amanda 
was  dearer  to  him  than  life,  and  hope  could  sketch  no  prospect, 
in  which  she  was  not  the  foremost  object.  Impetuous  in  his  pas- 
sions, the  lapse  of  the  hours  was  insupportably  tedious  ; and  the 
idea  of  waiting  till  the  morning  to  declare  his  penitence,  his  inten- 
tion, and  again  implore  her  forgiveness,  filled  him  with  agony  ; he 
went  up  to  the  cottage  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch  ; he 
hesitated  ; even  from  the  rustics  he  wished  to  conceal  his  shame 
and  confusion.  All  within  and  without  the  cottage  was  still ; the 
moonbeams  seemed  to  sleep  upon  the  thatch,  and  the  trees  were 
unagitated  by  a breeze. 

‘ Happy  rustics  ! ’ exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer.  ‘ Children  of  con- 
tent and  undeviating  integrity,  sleep  presses  sweetly  on  your 
eyelids.  My  Amanda  too  rests,  for  she  is  innocent.’ 

He  descended  to  the  valley,  and  saw  a light  from  her  window  ; 
he  advanced  within  a few  yards  of  it,  and  saw  her  plainly  walk 
about  with  an  agitated  air — her  handkerchief  raised  to  her  eyes, 
as  if  she  wept.  His  feelings  rose  almost  to  frenzy  at  this  sight 
and  he  execrated  himself  for  being  the  occasion  of  her  tears.  The 
village  clock  struck  one  ; good  Heavens  ! how  many  hours  must 
intervene  ere  he  could  kneel  before  the  lovely  mourner,  implore 
her  soft  voice  to  accord  his  pardon,  and  (as  he  flattered  himself 
would  be  the  case),  in  the  fullness  of  reconciliation,  press  her  to 
his  throbbing  heart,  as  the  sweet  partner  of  his  future  days.  Thii 
light  was  at  last  extinguished  ; but  he  could  not  rest,  and  con- 
tinued to  wander  about  like  a perturbed  spirit  till  the  day  began  tc 
dawn,  and  he  saw  some  early  peasants  coming  to  their  labors. 


52 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBBT. 


CHAPTER  VIII, 

Oh  let  me  now,  into  a richer  soil, 

Transplant  thee  safe,  where  vernal  suns  and  showers 
Diffuse  their  warmest,  largest  influence  ; 

And  of  my  garden  be  the  pride  and  joy.— Thomson. 

The  moment  he  thought  he  could  see  Amanda,  Mortimer  has- 
tened to  the  cottage  ; the  nurse,  as  she  had  promised,  would  not 
reproach  him,  though  she  strongly  suspected  his  having  done 
something  to  offend  her  child  ; but  her  sullen  air  declared  her 
dissatisfaction.  ‘ Miss  Fitzalan  was  too  ill,'  she  said,  ‘to  see  com- 
pany ’ (for  Lord  Mortimer  had  inquired  for  Amanda  by  her  real 
name,  detesting  the  one  of  Dunford,  to  which,  in  a great  degree, 
he  imputed  his  unfortunate  conduct  to  her).  The  nurse  spoke 
truth  in  saying  Amanda  was  ill  ; her  agitation  was  too  much  for 
her  frame,  and  in  the  morning  she  felt  so  feverish  she  could  not 
rise  ; she  had  not  spirits,  indeed,  to  attempt  it.  Sunk  to  the  low- 
est ebb  of  dejection,  she  felt  solitude  alone  congenial  to  her  feelings* 
Hitherto  the  morning  had  been  impatiently  expected ; for,  with 
Mortimer,  she  enjoyed  its 

Cool,  its  fragrant,  and  its  silent  hour. 

But  no  Mortimer  was  now  desired.  In  the  evening  he  made 
another  attempt ; and  finding  Ellen  alone,  sent  in  a supplicatory 
message  by  her  to  Amanda:  She  was  just  risen,  and  Mrs.  Edwin 
was  making  tea  for  her ; a flush  of  indignation  overspread  her 
pale  face,  on  receiving  his  message.  ‘ Tell  him,’  said  she,  ‘ I am 
astonished  at  his  request,  and  never  will  grant  it.  Let  him  seek 
elsewhere  a heart  more  like  his  own,  and  trouble  my  repose  no 
move.’ 

He  heard  her  words,  and  in  a fit  of  passion  and  disappointment 
flew  out  of  the  house.  Howel  entered  soon  after,  and  heard  from 
Ellen  an  account  of  the  quarrel ; a secret  hope  sprung  in  his  heart 
at  this  intelligence,  and  he  desired  Ellen  to  meet  him  in  about 
half  an  hour  in  the  valley,  thinking  by  that  time  he  could  dictate 
some  message  to  send  by  her  to  Amanda. 

As  the  parson  had  never  paid  Miss  Fitzalan  any  of  those  atten- 
tions  which  strike  a vulgar  eye,  and  had  often  laughed  and  fami- 
liary  chatted  with  Ellen,  she  took  it  into  her  head  he  was  an 
admirer  of  hers ; and  if  being  the  object  of  Chip’s  admiration  ex- 
cited the  envy  of  her  neighbors,  how  much  would  that  increase 
when  the  parson’s  predilection  was  known?  She  set  about  adorn- 
ing herself  for  her  appointment;  and  while  thus  employed  the 
honest,  faithful  Chip  entered,  attired  in  his  holiday  clothes,  to  es- 
cort her  to  a little  dance.  Ellen  bridled  up  at  the  first  intimation 
of  it ; and  delighted  with  the  message  Amanda  had  sent  to  Lord 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


63 


Mortimer,  which  in  her  opinion  was  extremely  eloquent,  she  re- 
solved now  to  imitate  it. 

‘Timothy,’  said  she,  drawing  back  her  head,  ‘your  request  is 
the  most  improperest  that  can  be  conceived,  and  it  is  by  no  means 
convenient  for  me  to  adhere  to  it.  I tell  you,  Tim,’  cried  she,, 
waving  the  corner  of  her  white  apron,  for  white  handkerchief  she 
had  not,  ‘I  wonder  at  your  presumptioness  in  making  it;  cease 
your  flattering  expressions  of  love,  look  out  among  the  inferiority 
for  a heart  more  like  your  own,  and  trouble  my  pleasure  no  more. 

Chip  paused  a moment,  as  if  wanting  to  comprehend  her  mean* 
ing.  ‘ The  short  and  the  long  of  it  then,  Nell,’  said  he,  ‘ is,  that 
you  and  I are  to  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other.’ 

‘ True,’  cried  his  coquettish  mistress. 

‘Well,  well,  Nell,’  said  he  half  crying,  ‘the  time  may  come 
when  you  will  repent  having  served  a true-hearted  lad  in  this 
manner.’  So  saying,  he  ran  from  the  house. 

Ellen  surveyed  herself  with  great  admiration,  and  expected  noth- 
ing less  than  an  immediate  offer  of  the  parson's  hand.  She  found 
him  punctual  to  his  appointment,  and  after  walking  some  time 
about  the  valley,  they  sat  down  together  upon  a little  bank. 
‘ Ellen,’  said  he,  taking  her  hand,  ‘ do  you  think  there  is  any  hope 
for  me?’ 

‘ Nay,  now  intead,  Mr.  Howel,’  cried  she,  with  affected  coyness, 
‘ that  is  such  a strange  question.  ’ 

‘ But  the  quarrel,  perhaps,’  said  he,  ‘may  be  made  up.’ 

• No,  I assure  you,’  replied  she,  with  quickness,  ‘ it  was  entirely 
on  your  account  it  ever  took  place.’ 

‘ Is  it  possible ! ’ exclaimed  he,  pleasure  sparkling  in  his  eyes ; 
‘ then  I may  reurge  my  passion.’ 

‘ Ah,  tear  now,  Mr.  Howel,  you  are  so  very  pressing.’ 

‘ Do  you  think,’  said  he,  ‘ she  is  too  ill  to  see  me?  ’ 

‘ Who  too  ill?  ’ 

‘ Why,  Miss  Fitzalan.’  (For,  the  moment  Ellen  knew  Lord 
Mortimer  was  acquainted  with  Amanda’s  name,  she  thought  there 
was  no  longer  reason  for  concealing  it  from  anyone,  and  had  in 
formed  Howel  of  it.) 

‘ Miss  Fitzalan ! ’ repeated  she,  starting  and  changing  color. 

‘ Yes,  Ellen,  the  dear,  lovely  Miss  Fitzalan,  whom  I adore  mor6 
than  language  can  express,  or  imagination  conceive.’ 

Adieu  to  Ellen’s  airy  hopes ; her  chagrin  could  not  be  concealed ; 
and  tears  burst  from  her.  The  curate  tenderly  inquired  the  cause 
of  her  emotion;  though  vain,  she  was  not  artful,  and  could  not 
disguise  it.  • ‘ Why,  really,  you  made  such  speeches,  I thought — 
and  then  you  looked  so.  But  it  is  no  matter ; I pelieve  all  men 
are  teceitful.’ 

From  her  tears  and  disjoined  sentences,  he  began  to  suspect  some 


^4  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

thing,  and  his  gentle  mind  was  hurt  at  the  idea  of  giving  her  pain; 
anxious,  however,  to  receive  his  doom  from  Amanda,  he  again 
asked  if  she  thought  he  could  see  her. 

Ellen  answered  him  snappishly,  she  could  not  tell ; and  hurried 
to  the  cottage,  where  a flood  of  tears  soon  relieved  her  distress. 
To  be  dressed  so  charmingly,  and  for  no  purpose,  was  a pity ; she 
therefore  resolved  on  going  to  the  dance,  consoling  herself  with 
the  old  saying  of  having  more  than  one  string  to  her  bow ; and 
that  if  Chip  was  not  as  genteel,  he  was  quite  as  personable  a man 
as  the  curate.  Walking  aown  the  lane,  she  met  a little  boy,  who 
gave  her  a letter  from  Chip ; full  of  the  idea  of  its  containing  some 
overtures  for  a reconciliation,  she  hastily  broke  it  open,  and  read 
to  the  following  effect : 

Ellen:  After  your  cruelty,  I could  not  bear  to  stay  in  the  village,  as  I never  could 
work  another  stroke  with  a light  heart;  and  every  tree  and  meadow  would  remind  me 
of  the  love  my  dear  girl  once  bore  her  poor  Chip.  So,  before  this  comes  to  hand,  I 
shall  be  on  my  way  to  enter  one  of  the  King’s  ships,  and  Heaven  knows  whether  we 
«hall  ever  meet  again;  but  this  I know,  I shall  always  love  Ellen,  though  she  was  so 
cruel  to  her  own  faithful  Tim  Chip. 

Thus  did  the  vanity  of  Ellen  receive  a speedy  punishment. 
Her  distress  for  some  days  was  unabated;  but  at  last  yielded  to 
the  mild  arguments  of  Amanda,  and  the  hopes  she  inspired  of 
seeing  the  wandering  hero  again. 

Howel  at  last  obtained  an  interview,  and  ventured  to  plead  his 
passion.  Amanda  thanked  him  for  his  regard,  but  declared  her 
inability  of  returning  it  as  he  wished;  assuring  him,  however,  at 
the  same  time,  of  her  sincere  friendship. 

‘This  then  shall  suffice,’  said  he.  ‘ Neither  sorrow  nor  disap- 
pointment are  new  to  me ; and  when  they  oppress  me,  I will  turn 
to  the  idea  of  my  angel  friend,  and  forget,  for  some  moments  at 
least,  my  heavy  burden.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  made  several  attempts  for  again  seeing  Amanda, 
but  without  success;  he  then  wrote,  but  his  letters  were  not  suc- 
cessful. In  despair  at  finding  neither  letters  nor  messages  re- 
ceived by  Amanda,  he  at  last,  by  stratagem,  effected  an  inter- 
view. Meeting  one  of  the  young  Edwins  returning  from  the 
post-town  with  a letter,  he  inquired,  and  heard  it  was  for  Miss 
Eitzalan ; a little  persuasion  prevailed  on  the  young  man  to  re- 
linquish it,  and  Lord  Mortimer  flew  directly  to  the  cottage. 
‘Now,’  cried  he,  ‘ the  inexorable  girl  must  appear,  if  she  wishes 
to  receive  her  letter.’ 

The  nurse  informed  Amanda  of  it ; but  she,  suspecting  it  to  be 
a scheme,  refused  to  appear.  ‘ By  Heaven,  I do  not  deceive  her!’ 
exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer;  ‘nor  will  I give  the  letter  into  any 
hands  but  hers.’  ‘This,  my  lord,’ said  Amanda,  coming  from 
her  chamber,  ‘ is  really  cruel ; but  give  me  the  letter,’  impatientljf 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


65 


stretching*  out  her  hand  for  it.  ‘ Another  condition  remains  to  be 
complied  with,’  cried  he,  seizing  her  soft  hand,  which  she,  how- 
ever, instantly  ^with drew;  ‘you  must  read  it.  Miss  Pitzalan,  in 
my  presence.’  ‘ Good  Heavens,  how  you  torment  me!’* she  ex- 
claimed. ‘Do  you  comply  then?’  ‘Yes,’ she  replied,  and  re- 
ceived the  letter  Irom  him.  The  pity  and  compunction  of  his 
lordship  increased  as  he  gazed  on  her  pale  face,  while  her  eyes 
eagerly  ran  over  the  contents  of  the  letter,  which  were  as  fol- 
lows: 

To  Mies  Fitzalan  : 

To  be  able  to  communicate  pleasune  to  my  Amanda,  rewards  me  for  tedious  months 
of  wretchedness.  Dry  up  your  tears,  sweet  child  of  early  sorrow,  for  the  source  of 
grief  exists  no  longer;  Lord  Cherbury  has  been  kind  beyond  my  warmest  expectations^ 
and  has  given  me  the  ineffable  delight,  as  far  as  pecuniary  matters  can  do,  of  render- 
ing the  future  days  of  Amanda  happy.  In  my  next  I shall  be  more  explicit;  at  present 
I have  not  a moment  I can  call  my  own,  which  must  excuse  this  laconic  letter.  Tho 
faithful  Edwins  will  rejoice  in  the  renewed  fortune  of  their  dear  Amanda’s  affectionate 
father. 

Jermyn  Street.  . Augustus  Fitzalan. 

The  emotions  of  Amanda  were  irrepressible ; the  letter  dropped 
from  her  trembling  hands,  and  her  streaming  eyes  were  raised  to 
heaven.  ‘ Oh,  bless  him  1 ’ she  exclaimed.  ‘ Gracious  Heaven, 
bless  the  benefactor  of  my  father  for  this  good  deed ! May  sorrow 
or  misfortune  never  come  across  his  path.’ 

‘ And  who,  may  I ask,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘ merits  so  sweet  a 
prayer  from  Amanda?  ’ 

‘See,’ cried  she,  presenting  him  the  letter,  as  if  [happy  at  the 
moment  to  have  such  a proof  of  the  truth  of  what  she  had  alleged 
to  him. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  affected  by  the  letter ; his  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  he  turned  aside  to  hide  his  emotion;  recovering  him- 
self, he  again  approached  her.  ‘ And  while  you  so  sweetly  pray 
for  the  felicity  of  the  father,’  said  he,  ‘ are  you  resolved  on  doom- 
ing the  son  to  despair?  If  sincere  penitence  can  extenuate  error, 
and  merit  mercy,  I deserve  to  be  forgiven.’ 

Amanda  rose,  as  if  with  an  intention  of  retiring,  but  Lord 
Mortimer  caught  her  hand.  ‘Think  not,’ cried  he,  ‘I  will  lose 
the  present  opportunity,  which  I have  so  long  desired,  and  with 
such  difficulty  obtained,  of  entering  into  a vindication  of  my 
conduct;  however  it  may  be  received  by  you,  it  is  a justice  I owe 
my  own  character  to  make;  for  as  I never  willfully  injured  in- 
nocence, so  I cannot  bear  to  be  considered  as  its  violator.  Amidst 
the  wildness,  the  extravagance  of  youth,  which  with  compunc- 
tion I acknowledge  being  too  often  led  into,  my  heart  still 
acquitted  me  of  ever  committing  an  act  which  could  entail  upon 
me  the  pangs  of  conscience.  Sacred  to  me  has  virtue  ever  been, 
how  lowly  soever  in  situation.’ 


66 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


The  idea  of  his  being  able  to  vindicate  himself  scarcely  afford' 
ed  less  pleasure  to  Amanda  than  it  did  to  Lord  Mortimer,  bhe 
suffered  him  to  reseat  her,  while  he  related  the  circumstances 
which  had  led  him  astray  in  his  opinion  of  her.  Oh  ! how  fervent 
was  the  rapture  that  pervaded  Amanda’s  heart,  when,  as  she  listen- 
ed to  him,  she  found  he  was  still  the  amiable,  the  generous,  the 
noble  character  her  fancy  had  first  conceived  him  to  be.  Tears  of 
pleasure,  exquisite  as  those  she  had  lately  shed,  again  fell  from 
her  ; for  oh  ! what  delight  is  there  in  knowing  that  an  object  we 
cannot  help  loving  we  may  still  esteem.  ‘ Thus,’  continued  Lord 
Mortimer,  ‘have  I accounted  for  my  ^rror  : an  error  which,  ex- 
cept on  account  of  your  displeasure,  I know  not  whether  I should 
regret,  as  it  has  convinced  me,  more  forciblj^  than  any  other  cir- 
cumstance could  have  done,  of  the  perfections  of  your  mind,  and 
has,  besides,  removed  from  mine  prejudices  which  causelessly  I 
did  not  entertain  against  your  sex.  Was  every  woman  in  a 
similar  situation  to  act  like  you. 

Such  numbers  would  not  in  vain 

Of  broken  vows  and  faithless  men  complain. 

To  call  you  mine  is  the  height  of  my  wishes  ; on  your  decision  I 
rest  for  happiness.  Oh  ! my  Amanda,  let  it  be  a favorable  deci- 
sion, and  suffer  me  to  write  to  Mr.  Fitzalan,  and  request  him  to  be- 
stow on  me  the  greatest  treasure  one  being  could  possibly  receive 
from  another — a woman  lovely  and  educated  as  you  have  been.  ’ 

When  he  mentioned  appealing  to  her  father,  Amanda  could  no 
longer  doubt  the  sincerity  of  his  intentions.  Her  own  heart  plead- 
ed as  powerfully  as  his  solicitations  did  for  pardoning  him ; and  if 
she  did  not  absolutely  extend  her  hand,  she  at  least  suffered  it  to 
be  taken  without  any  reluctance.  ‘ I am  forgiven,  then,’  said 
Lord  Mortimer,  pressing  her  to  his  bosom.  ‘ Oh ! my  Amanda, 
years  of  tender  attention  can  never  make  up  for  this  goodness  ! ’ 

When  his  transports  were  a little  abated,  he  insisted  on  writing 
immediately  to  Fitzalan.  As  he  sealed  the  letter,  he  told  Amanda 
he  had  requested  an  expeditious  answer.  The  happiness  of  the 
youthful  pair  was  communicated  to  the  honest  rustics,  whom 
Lord  Mortimer  liberally  rewarded  for  their  fidelity  to  his  Amanda, 
and  whom  she  readily  excused  for  their  ambiguous  expressions  to 
him,  knowing  they  proceeded  from  simplicity  of  heart,  and  a wish 
of  serving  her,  yet  without  injuring  themselves,  by  betraying  the 
manner  in  which  they  had  procured  their  intelligence  of  her  sit- 
uation. 

The  day  after  the  reconciliation.  Lord  Mortimer  told  Amanda  he 
was  compelled,  for  a short  time,  to  leave  her  ; with  that  reluctance, 
he  hoped,  he  said,  she  could  readily  conceive  ; but  the  visit,  which 
lie  had  come  into  Wales  for  the  purpose  of  paying,  had  been  so 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBET. 


67 


long  deferred,  his  friend  was  growing  impatient,  and  threatened 
to  come  to  Tudor  Hall  to  see  what  detained  him  there.  To  pre- 
vent such  a measure,  which  he  knew  would  be  a total  interruption 
to  the  happiness  he  enjoyed  in  her  society,  Lord  Mortimer  added^ 
he  meant  to  pass  a few  days  with  him,  hoping  by  the  time  he  re« 
turned  there  would  be  a letter  from  Mr.  Fitzalan,  which  would 
authorize  his  immediate  preparations  for  their  nuptials.  Amanda 
wished,  but  could  not  totally  hide,  the  uneasiness  she  felt  at  the 
prospect  of  a separation  ; the  idea,  however,  of  his  speedy  return, 
rendered  it  but  transient,  and  he  departed  in  a few  hours  after  he 
had  mentioned  his  intention. 

Amanda  had  never  before  experienced  such  happiness  as  she 
now  enjoyed.  She  now  saw  herself  on  the  point  of  being  elevated 
to  a situation,  by  a man,  too,  whom  she  adored,  which  would  give 
her  ample  opportunities  of  serving  the  dearest  connections  of  her 
heart,  and  of  gratifying  the  benevolence  of  her  disposition,  and 
the  elegance  of  her  taste.  Oh,  how  delightful  to  think  she  should 
be  able  to  soothe  the  declining  period  of  her  father’s  life,  by  pro- 
viding for  him  all  the  requisite  indulgences  of  age  ! oh,  how  de- 
lightful to  think  she  should  be  accessory  to  her  dear  Oscar’s  pro- 
motion ! how  rapturous  to  imagine  at  her  approach  the  drooping 
children  of  misery  would  brighten  with  pleasing  presages  of  relief, 
which  she  should  amply  realize  ! Such  were  Amanda’s  anticipa- 
tions of  what  she  termed  the  blessings  of  an  affluent  fortune  ; fe- 
licity, in  her  opinion,  was  to  be  diffused  to  be  enjoyed.  Of  Lord 
Cherbury’s  sanction  to  the  attachment  of  his  son,  she  entertained 
not  a doubt  ; her  birth  was  little  inferior  to  his,  and  fortune  was 
entirely  out  of  the  question — for  a liberal  mind,  she  thought, 
could  never  look  to  that,  when  on  one  side  was  already  possessed 
more  than  sufficient  for  even  the  luxuries  of  life.  Such  where 
the  ideas  of  the  innocent  and  romantic  Amanda — ideas  which 
made  her  seem  to  tread  on  air,  and  which  she  entertained  till  sub- 
sequent experience  convinced  her  of  their  fallacyc 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Alas  ! the  story  melts  away  my  soul  1 
That  best  of  fathers,  how  shall  I discharge 
The  gratitude  and  duty  which  I owe  him  ? 

— By  laying  up  his  counsels  in  your  heart. — Cato. 

Amanda  was  sitting  in  the  recess  in  the  garden,  the  fourth  even- 
ing of  Lord  Mortimer's  absence,  when  suddenly  she  heard  the  rat- 
tling of  a carriage.  Her  heart  bounded,  and  she  flew  into  the 
house  ; at  the  very  moment  a chaise  stopped  at  the  door,  from 
which,  to  her  inexpressible  amazement,  her  father  descended. 

Transfixed  to  the  spot,  it  was  many  minutes  ere  she  had  powel 


68 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


to  bid  him  welcome,  or  return  the  fond  caresses  he  bestowed  upoQ 
her.  *Iam  come,  Amanda,’ said  he,  eagerly  interrupting  the 
joyful  speeches  of  the  Edwins,  ‘ to  take  you  away  with  me  ; and 
one  hour  is  all  I can  give  you  to  prepare  yourself.’  ‘ Good  Heav* 
on  ! ’ said  Amanda,  starting,  ‘ to  take  me  away  immediately  ? ’ 
^ Immediately,’  he  repeated.  ‘ And  as  I know  you  are  attached  to 
this  good  girl,’  turning  to  Ellen,  ‘I  shall  be  happy,  if  her  par- 
ents permit,  to  procure  her  attendance  for  you.  ’ 

The  Edwins,  who  would  have  followed  themselves,  or  allowed 
any  of  their  family  to  follow  Fitzalan  and  his  daughter  round  the 
world,  gladly  consented  to  her  going  , and  the  girl,  exclusive  of 
her  attachment  to  Amanda,  which  was  very  great,  having  pined 
ever  since  her  lover’s  departure,  rejoiced  at  the  idea  of  a change 
of  scene. 

Not  so  Amanda  ; it  made  her  suffer  agony  ; to  be  torn  from 
Lord  Mortimer  in  the  hour  of  reconciliation  and  explanation,  was 
more  than  she  could  support  with  fortitude.  Her  father,  perhaps, 
had  not  received  his  letter  ; it  was  but  justice  then  to  him  and 
Lord  Mortimer  to  reveal  her  situation.  She  left  her  trunk  half- 
packed,  and  went  out  for  that  purpose  ; but  as  she  stood  before  him 
with  quivering  lips  and  half-a verted  eyes,  at  a loss  to  begin,  he 
took  her  hand,  and  softly  exclaimed  : ‘ My  love,  let  us  for  the 
present  waive  every  subject ; the  moments  are  precious  ; hasten  to 
put  on  your  habit,  or  we  shall  be  too  late  at  the  stage  where  I propose 
resting  to-night.’  Amanda  turned  in  silence  to  her  chamber  to 
comply  with  his  desire  ; tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  and  for  the 
ffrst  time  she  conceived  the  idea  of  being  hurried  away  to  avoid 
Lord^Mortimer  ; but  why,  she  could  not  think — honor  as  well  as 
tenderness,  she  thought,  demanded  her  acquainting  him  with  the 
cause  of  her  precipitate  journey  ; but,  when  she  took  [up  a pen 
for  that  purpose,  her  hand  was  unsteady,  and  she  was  so  much 
disturbed  by  the  nurse  and  her  daughters,  who  ran  backward  and 
forward  in  all  the  bustle  of  preparation,  that  she  could  not  write  ; 
her  father  prevented  a second  effort,  for  he  was  continually 
coming  to  her  chamber  door  urging  her  to  be  quick,  and  thus 
prevented  her  delivering  any  message  to  the  nurse  for  Lord 
Mortimer  ; so  great  was  his  eagerness  to  depart,  he  would  not  suf- 
fer the  horses  to  be  taken  from  the  chaise,  or  any  refreshment 
to  be  brought  him  by  the  Edwins,  notwithstanding  their  pressing 
entreaties  ; neither  would  he  answer  their  interrogatories  as  to 
where  he  was  going,  saying  they  should  know  hereafter.  The 
parting  embrace  was  at  last  given  and  received  with  a heavy 
heart — Amanda  was  handed  to  the  carriage — silence  picvailed — 
all  the  travelers  were  equally  though  differently  affected  ; the 
cottage  and  the  spire  of  the  village  church  had  awakened  the 
most  affecting  remembrances  in  the  mind  of  Fitzalan,  and  tears 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


6d 

fell  from  him  to  the  memory  of  his  unfortunate  Malvina  ; sighs 
burst  from  Amanda  as  she  viewed  the  white  turrets  of  Tudor  Hall^ 
and  Ellen  sobbed  on  passing  the  forsaken  cottage  of  poor  Chip. 
From  all  these  affecting  and  beloved  objects  the  rapidity  of  the  car- 
riage  soon  conveyed  them  ; but  the  impressions  they  left  upon  their 
minds  were  not  so  easily  eradicated.  Fitzalan  was  the  first  to* 
break  the  unsocial  silence,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  did  so  for 
the  purpose  of  rousing  the  dejection  of  his  daughter  ; a cross  road 
from  the  cottage  shortly  brought  them  to  Conway  Ferry,  which 
they  were  obliged  to  pass,  and  here,  had  Amanda’s  mind  been  at 
ease,  she  would  have  felt  truly  gratified  by  viewing  the  remains 
of  Gothic  magnificence  which  Castle  Conway  exhibited  ; as  it  was, 
she  could  not  behold  them  unmoved,  and,  while  she  admired, 
gave  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh  to  grandeur  and  decay.  They 
only  continued  in  Conway  till  a carriage  was  provided  for  them, 
and  soon  came  beneath  the  stupendous  projections  of  Penmaen- 
mawr  ; this  was  a scene  as  new  as  awful  to  Amanda  : ‘ Well,  Cot 

in  heaven  pless  their  souls.’  Ellen  said,  ‘what  a tefil  of  a w^ay 
they  should  be  in  if  one  of  them  huge  stones  rolled  down  upon 
the  carriage.  ’ They  stopped  not  again  until  they  reached  Bangor 
Ferry,  where  they  were  to  rest  for  the  night.  Amanda’s  strength, 
and  spirits  were  now  so  entirely  exhausted,  that  had  not  a glass, 
of  wine  been  immediately  procured  her,  she  would  have  fainted 
from  weakness  ; this  a little  revived  her,  and  the  tears  she  shed 
relieved  in  some  degree  the  oppression  of  her  heart ; her  father 
left  her  and  Ellen  together,  while  he  went  to  give  directions 
£,bout  the  journey  of  the  ensuing  day. 

Amanda  went  to  the  window  and  threw  up  the  sash ; the  air 
from  the  mountains  she  thought  refreshed  her,  the  darkness  of 
the  hour  was  opposed  by  a bright  moon,  which  cast  a tremblings 
radiance  upon  the  water,  and  by  its  partial  gleams  exhibited  a 
beautiful  scene  of  light  and  shade,  that  had  Amanda  been  in  an- 
other frame  of  mind  she  would  infinitely  have  admired ; the  scene 
too  was  almost  as  still  as  it  was  lovely,  for  no  voice  was  heard  ex- 
cept a low  murmur  from  voices  below  stairs ; while  she  stood  here 
in  a deep  reverie,  the  paddling  of  oars  suddenly  roused  her,  and 
she  beheld  a boat  on  the  opposite  shore,  which  in  a few^  minutes; 
gained  the  one  where  she  was,  and  she  saw  coming  from  it  to  the 
inn  a large  party  of  gentlemen,  whose  air  and  attendants  an- 
nounced them  to  be  men  of  fashion ; they  seemed  by  their  dis- 
course to  be  a convivial  party;  the  light  was  too  dim  to  allow 
their  faces  to  be  discerned,  but  in  the  figure  of  one  Amanda  thought 
she  perceived  a strong  resemblance  to  Lord  Mortimer  ; her  heart 
throbbed,  she  leaned  forward  to  endeavor  to  distinguish  more 
plainly,  and  at  the  moment  heard  his  well-known  voice  ordering  his 
groom  to  have  the  horses  ready  at  twelve  o’clock,  as  he  woul# 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


ITO 

take  the  advantage  of  such  fine  weather  to  set  off  at  that  hour  foie 
Tudor  Hall ; the  party  were  then  ushered  into  a room  contiguous 
to  the  one  occupied  by  Amanda,  while  the  bustling  of  the  waiters, 
and  the  clattering  of  knives,  forks,  and  plates  announced  the  pre- 
parations for  a late  dinner.  Oh ! what  were  now  the  agitations  of 
Amanda,  to  think  that  in  one  moment  she  could  inform  Lord 
Mortimer  of  her  situation ; but  the  transport  the  idea  gave  was  re- 
linquished almost  as  soon  as  felt,  as  such  a measure  she  thought 
might  perhaps  forever  disoblige  her  father.  In  this  tumult  of  doubt 
and  perplexity  he  found  her ; and  by  his  conduct  con  vinced  her  that 
he  not  only  knew  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  being  in  the  house,  but  wished 
her  to  avoid  him;  for  he  instantly  led  her  from  the  window,  and 
shutting  it  down,  darted,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  a severe  frown 
at  her ; a dagger  in  the  breast  of  Amanda  could  scarcely  have  given 
her  more  pain — a cold  horror  ran  through  her  veins,  and  she  was 
oppressed  by  as  many  fears  as  if  she  had  been  conscious  of  offend- 
ing him.  The  supper  he  had  ordered  was  a little  retarded  by  the  late 
dinner  of  his  gay  neighbors ; he  would  have  had  it  in  another  room 
had  another  been  disengaged;  vainly  did  his  timid  companions  try 
to  eat — Amanda  was  sick,  and  Ellen  frightened,  though  she  knew 
not  why ; the  waiter  was  dismissed,  and  the  most  unsocial  silence 
prevailed. 

Unbounded  gayety  reigned  in  the  next  apartment,  from  which 
every  sound  could  plainly  be  distinguished.  Dinner  over,  the  ex- 
hilarating juice  went  round,  and  bumper  toasts  were  called.  Lord 
Mortimer  at  last  was  asked  for  a fair  nymph.  ‘ I will  give  you,’ 
exclaimed  he,  in  a voice  which  denoted  his  being  uncommonly 
elevated,  ‘ an  angel ! ’ — Amanda’s  heart  beat  violently  and  her 
cheeks  glowed.  ‘ A name  for  this  celestial  beauty ! ’ demanded  one 
of  the  party  : ‘ Amanda,  ’ cried  his  lordship.  ‘ Oh,  faith,  Mortimer, 
that  won’t  do,’  said  another  of  his  companions ; ‘ this  angel  shall 
not  pass  without  the  rest  of  her  name.’  ‘Miss  Fitzalan,  then, ’ex- 
claimed his  lordship.  ‘Oh ! oh ! ’ cried  a new  voice,  with  a loud  laugh, 
after  due  honor  had  been  paid  to  the  toast,  ‘ I begin  to  unravel  a 
mystery;  upon  my  soul  I could  not  conceive  till  this  instant  what 
had  kept  you  so  long  at  the  Hall ; for  I had  seen  the  maiden  part  of 
the  household,  and  knew  the  metal  there  was  not  very  attractive; 
but  this  Amanda,!  suppose, is  the  rosy  daughter  of  some  poor  curate 
in  its  vicinity,  who  for ’ ‘ Beware  I ’ interrupted  Lord  Mor- 

timer in  an  agitated  voice,  ‘ of  what  you  say ; give  me  no  reason  to 
repent  having  introduced  a name  so  valued  into  this  company — the 
situation  of  Miss  Fitzalan  is  not  exactly  what  you  suppose;  but  let 
this  suffice  for  you  to  know — it  is  such  as  secures  her  from  every 
species  of  impertinence  ; and  were  it  even  less  protected,  her  own 
elegance  and  propriety  would  elevate  her  above  receiving  any.* 
The  face  of  Fitzalan,  during  this  conversation,  was  crimsoned  ovei; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


71 


and  he  again  darted  a frown  at  the  trembling  Amanda,  which  almost 
petrified  her ; he  told  her  that  she  and  Ellen  must  retire  immediate^ 
ly  to  rest  as  they  had  a long  journey  before  them  the  ensuing  day, 
which  would  require  their  rising  early.  Amanda,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  wished  to  be  relieved  from  his  presence,  and  gladly 
rose  to  obey  him ; he  attended  her  himself  to  the  room  prepared  for 
her,  which  was  directly  over  that  where  the  gentlemen  sat;  to 
think  of  rest  was  impossible ; the  severity  of  her  father’s  looks,  and 
her  precipitate  journey — she  knew  not  whither — but  evidently  for 
the  purpose  of  avoiding  Lord  Mortimer,  filled  the  thoughts  of 
Amanda  with  confusion  and  distress ; Ellen  essayed  artless  consola- 
tion : ‘ What  the  tefil  do  you  think,’  said  she,  ‘ if  I was  to  go  down 
to  give  his  lortship  an  intimation  of  your  peing  here ; you  could 
easily  contrive  to  see  him  in  the  garden,  or  else  we  could  pring  him 
up  here,  and  if  the  captain  surprised  us,  we  could  pop  him  in  a 
moment  behind  the  curtain.’  Amanda  motioned  her  to  silence, 
unwilling  to  lose  the  smallest  sound  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  voice,  and 
determined,  anxious  as  she  was  to  see  him,  never  to  act  in  opposi- 
tion to  her  father.  At  length  the  horses  were  led  from  the  stable, 
and  the  convivial  party  descended  to  them.  Amanda  softly  raised 
the  window,  and  saw  Lord  Mortimer  eagerly  vault  upon  the  saddle ; 
he  gave  a hasty  adieu  to  his  friends,  and  galloped  off;  they 
mounted  at  the  same  time,  but  took  a contrary  direction.  Amanda 
leaned  out  till  she  could  no  longer  hear  the  clattering  of  the  horses’ 
hoofs ; her  heart  sunk  as  the  sound  died  upon  her  ear ; she  wept  as 
she  retired  from  the  window.  The  idea  of  Mortimer’s  disappoint- 
ment aggravated  her  grief ; she  no  longer  opposed  Ellen’s  efforts  to 
undress  her ; exhausted  by  fatigue,  sleep  soon  closed  her  eyes ; and 
fancy  again  transported  her  to  Tudor  Hall  and  Mortimer. 

By  the  first  dawn  of  day  a knock  at  her  chamber- door  roused  her 
from  this  pleasing  illusion,  and  she  heard  her  father  desiring  her 
to  rise  immediately.  Drowsy  as  she  was,  she  instantly  obeyed  the 
summons,  and  awaking  Ellen,  they  were  ready  ^o  attend  him  in  a 
few  minutes;  a boat  was  already  prepared,  and  on  gaining  the  op- 
posite side  they  found  a carriage  in  waiting.  Day  was  now  just 
uawning ; a gray  mist  enveloped  the  mountains,  and  cast  a shade  of 
obscurity  upon  all  the  inferior  objects ; at  length  the  atmosphere 
began  to  brighten — the  lucid  clouds  in  the  east  were  tinged  with 
golden  radiance,  and  the  sun  in  beautiful  and  refulgent  majesty 
arose,  gladdening  the  face  of  nature  with  its  potent  beams;  the 
trees,  the  shrubs,  seemed  waving  their  dewy  heads  in  sign  of  grate- 
ful homage,  while  their  winged  inhabitants,  as  they  soared  in  the 
air,  poured  forth  the  softest  notes  of  melody.  Amanda,  in  spite  of 
Badness,  beheld  the  charming  scene  with  admiration ; and  Fitzalan 
contemplated  it  with  delight.  ‘ All  nature,’  he  exclaimed,  ‘ points 
out  to  man  the  gratitude  due  to  the  Divine  dispenser  of  good' 


72 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


hardened  must  that  heart  be  against  the  feelings  of  sensibility 
which  the  harmony  and  fragrance  of  this  early  hour  awakens  not 
to  a perfect  sense  of  it ! ’ Amanda  assented  to  his  remark  more  by 
a smile  than  words,  for  she  was  ill  able  to  speak.  They  stopped 
not  till  they  reached  Gwintey,  where  they  breakfasted,  and  then 
proceeded,  without  resting  again,  to  Holyhead,  which  place 
Fitzalan  announced  as  they  entered  it.  And  now,  Amanda  first 
conceived  the  idea  of  being  brought  to  another  kingdom,  whicli 
her  father  soon  confirmed  her  in — for,  as  soon  as  they  alighted,  he 
inquired  when  a packet  would  sail,  and  heard,  with  evident 
pleasure,  about  six  in  the  afternoon.  He  directly  desired  three 
passages  to  be  engaged ; and,  having  ordered  an  early  dinner,  dis- 
missed Ellen  into  another  room ; and  seating  himself  by  Amanda, 
he  took  her  hand,  and  with  a tender  voice  thus  addressed  her : ‘ Ta 
give  pain  to  your  gentle  heart  has  infiicted  torture  on  mine,  but 
honor  compelled  me  to  the  conduct  which  I have  adopted,  and 
which,  I trust  and  believe,  Amanda  will  excuse  when  she  knows 
my  motive  for  it,  which  in  due  order  she  shall  hear. 

‘ On  Lord  Cherbury’s  arrivsPl  in  town,  I was  immediately  in- 
formed of  it,  according  to  the  promise  of  his  domestics,  and  directly 
sent  him  my  letter ; scarcely  had  he  read  it,  ere,  with  all  the  ardor 
of  true  friendship,  he  came  and  brought  me  to  his  house,  where  we 
might  securely  reflect  on  what  was  to  be  done.  His  lordship  soon 
formed  a plan  that  at  once  inspired  me  with  gratitude  and 
pleasure  as  it  promised  me  competence  without  depriving  me  of  in- 
dependence— this  was  to  accept  the  agency  of  a considerable  estate 
in  the  north  of  Ireland,  which  he  possessed  in  right  of  his  wife, 
the  late  Countess  of  Cherbury,  who  was  an  Irish  heiress.  He  pro- 
posed my  residing  in  the  mansion  house,  offering  to  advance  a 
sum  sufficient  to  answer  all  demands  and  exigencies ; and  striving 
to  lighten  the  obligations  he  conferred  upon  me,  by  declaring  he 
had  long  been  seeking  a man  of  well-known  probity,  as  his  last 
agent  had  gone  off  considerably  in  arrears  to  him.  I accepted  his 
generous  offer,  and  soon  freed  myself  from  the  power  of  Belgrave. 
I now  felt  a tranquillity  I was  long  a stranger  to,  and  was  busied 
in  preparing  to  come  down  to  you,  when  Lord  Mortimer’s  letter, 
like  a clap  of  thunder,  broke  the  happy  calm  I enjoyed.  Gracious 
Heaven ! I shuddered  to  think,  that  at  the  very  period  Lord  Cher- 
bury was  building  up  my  fortunes,  the  hopes  he  entertained  for 
this  darling  son  were  in  a way  of  being  destroyed,  through  means 
of  a connection  of  mine ; he  had  hinted  to  me  his  having  already 
settled  upon  a splendid  alliance  for  Lord  Mortimer,  which  he  also 
hinted  his  heart  was  set  on ; this  the  infatuated  young  man  had  him- 
self some  knowledge  of;  for  in  his  rash  letter  he  entreated  my 
secrecy  relative  to  his  proposal  for  you  till  beyond  the  reach  of 
mortals  to  separate  you ; no  doubt  he  would  never  have  asked  my 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


73 


consent,  had  he  thought  he  could  have  procured  you  without  it ; he 
took  me,  I suppose,  for  some  needy  and  ambitious  creature,  who 
would,  though  at  the  expense  of  integrity,  grasp  an  opportunity  of 
elevating  a child  to  rank  and  fortune ; but  never  was  an  erring 
mortal  more  mistaken,  though  dearer  to  me  than  the  air  I breathe — 
though  the  lovely  child  of  my  lost  Malvina — though  a cherub, 
whose  innocent  endearments  often  raised  in  me,  as  Prospero  says  : 

An  undergoing  stomach— to  bear  up 

Against  what  should  ensue. 

I would  rather  see  you  breathless  at  my  feet,  than,  by  conscious 
and  apparent  meanness,  deserve  and  incur  the  malevolence  of 
calumny.  I committed  the  letter  to  the  flames,  and  requested 
Lord  Cherbury’s  final  commands ; being  desirous  to  commence  my 
journey  without  longer  delay,  as  your  delicate  state  of  health,  I 
said,  made  me  anxious  to  have  you  immediately  under  my  own 
care ; he  complied  with  my  request,  and  I traveled  post,  resolved 
to  separate  you  and  Lord  Mortimer — even  if  prepared  for  the  altar ; 
nor  was  I alone  actuated  to  this  by  gratitude  to  Lord  Cherbury,  or 
consideration  for  my  own  honor ; no,  with  these,  a regard  for  your 
peace  equally  influenced  me — a soul  of  sensibility  and  refinement 
like  yours  could  never,  I know,  be  happy  if  treated  with  repulsive 
coldness  by  the  family  of  her  husband;  particularly  if  her  con- 
science told  her  she  merited  that  coldness  by  entering  it  clandes- 
tinely. Could  I bear  to  think  that  you — so  lovely  in  person — so 
amiable  in  manners — so  illustrious  in  descent — should  be  called  an 
artful  and  necessitous  contriver?  an  imputation,  which,  most  un- 
doubtedly, your  union  with  Lord  Mortimer  would  have  incurred. 
No,  to  the  God  who  gave  you  to  my  care,  I hold  myself  responsible, 
as  far  as  in  my  power,  for  preserving  your  peace — to  the  mother, 
whose  last  words  implored  my  tenderness  for  her  offspring,  1 
hold  myself  accountable--to  me  she  still  exists — I think  her  ever 
near — and  ere  I act,  always  reflect  whether  such  an  action  would 
meet  her  approbation.  Such  is  the  respect  virtue  excites — it  lives 
when  the  frail  texture  of  mortality  is  dissolved.  Your  attachment, 
when  repelled  by  reason  and  fortitude,  will  soon  vanish ; as  for  Lord 
Mortimer,  removed  from  the  flame  which  warmed  his  heart,  he 
will  soon  forget  it  ever  played  around  it — should  he,  however,  be 
daring  enough  to  persevere,  he  will  find  my  resolution  unalterable. 
Honor  is  the  only  hereditary  possession  that  ever  came  to  me  unin- 
jured ; to  preserve  it  in  the  same  state  has  been  ever  my  unremitted 
study— it  iradiated  the  gloomy  morning  of  care,  and  I trust  it  will 
gild  the  setting  hours  of  existence.’ 

Amanda’s  emotions  deprived  her  of  speech  or  action — she  sat  a 
pale  statue,  listening  to  her  father’s  firm  and  rapid  language, 
which  announced  the  abolition  of  her  hopes;  ignorant  of  her  ina 


74 


THE  CHILDKEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


bility  to  speak,  he  felt  hurt  at  her  silence;  and  rising*  abruptly; 
walked  about  the  room  with  a disordered  air.  ‘ I see — I see,’  cried 
he  at  last,  looking  mournfully  upon  her,  ‘ I am  destined  to  be 
unhappy;  the  little  treasure  which  remained  from  the  wreck  of 
felicity,  I had  hoped  (vain  hope  1)  would  have  comforted  and  con- 
soled me  for  what  then  was  lost,’  ‘ Oh!  my  father  ! ’ exclaimed 
Amanda,  suddenly  starting  and  sighing  deeply,  ‘ how  you  pierce 
my  heart!  ’ his  pale,  emaciated  looks  seemed  to  declare  him  sinking 
beneath  a burden  of  care ; she  started  up,  and  flung  herself  into  his 
arms.  ‘ Dearest,  best  of  fathers ! ’ she  exclaimed,  in  a voice  broken 
by  sobs,  ‘ what  is  all  the  world  to  me  in  comparison  of  you  ? Shall 
I put  Lord  Mortimer,  so  lately  a stranger,  in  competition  with 
your  happiness  ? Oh,  no ! I will  henceforth  try  to  regulate  every 
impulse  of  my  heart  according  to  your  wishes.’  Fitzalan  burst 
into  tears — the  enthusiasm  of  virtue  warmed  them  both — hallowed 
are  her  raptures,  and  amply  do  they  recompense  the  pain  atten- 
dant on  her  sacrifices. 

Dinner  was  brought  in,  to  which  they  sat  down  in  their  usual 
social  manner;  and  Amanda,  happy  in  her  father’s  smiles,  felt  a 
ray  of  returning  cheerfulness.  The  evening  was  delightfully 
serene  when  they  went  on  board,  and  the  vessel,  with  a gentle 
motion,  glided  over  the  glittering  waves;  sickness  soon  compelled 
Amanda  and  Ellen  to  retire  from  the  deck ; yet,  without  a sigh,  the 
former  could  not  relinquish  the  prospect  of  the  Welsh  mountains. 
By  the  dawn  of  next  morning  the  vessel  entered  the  bay  of  Dublin, 
and  Fitzalan  shortly  after  brought  Amanda  from  the  cabin  to 
contemplate  a scene  which  far  surpassed  all  her  ideas  of  sublimity 
and  beauty,  a scene  which  the  rising  sun  soon  heightened  to  the 
most  glowing  radiance;  they  landed  at  the  Marine  Hotel,  where 
they  breakfasted,  and  then  proceeded  in  a carriage  to  a hotel  in 
Chapel  Street,  where  they  proposed  staying  a few  days  for  the  pur- 
pose of  enjoying  Oscar’s  company,  whose  regiment  was  quartered 
in  Dublin,  and  making  some  requisite  purchases  for  their  journey 
to  the  north.  As  the  carriage  drove  down  Chapel  Street,  Amanda 
saw  a young  officer  standing  at  the  corner  of  Mary’s  Abbey,  whose 
air  very  much  resembled  Oscar’s ; her  heart  palpitated ; she  looked 
out  and  perceived  the  resemblance  was  a just  one,  for  it  was  Oscar 
himself — the  carriage  passed  too  swiftly  for  him  to  recognize  her 
face;  but  he  was  astonished  to  see  a fair  hand  waving  to  him;  he 
walked  down  the  street,  and  reached  the  hotel  just  as  they  were 
entering  it 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


75 


CHAPTER  X. 

And  whence,  unhappy  youth,  he  cried. 

The  sorrow  of  thy  breast  ?— Goldsmith. 

The  raptures  of  this  meeting*  surpassed  description ; to  Oscar 
they  were  heightened  by  surprise  ; he  was  unfortunately  that 
day  on  guard  at  the  Bank — therefore  could  only  pay  them  a few 
short  and  stolen  visits  ; but  the  next  morning,  the  moment  he 
was  relieved,  he  came  to  them.  Fitzalan  had  given  Amanda 
money  to  purchase  whatever  she  deemed  necessary  for  her  con- 
venience and  amusement,  and  Oscar  attended  her  to  the  most 
celebrated  shops  to  make  her  purchases;  having  supplied  herself 
with  a pretty  fashionable  assortment  for  her  wardrobe,  she  pro- 
cured a small  collection  of  books,  sufficient,  however,  from  their 
excellence,  to  form  a little  library  in  themselves,  and  every  req- 
uisite for  drawing  ; nor  did  she  forget  the  little  wants  and  van- 
ities of  Ellen  ; they  returned  about  dinner  time  to  the  hotel,  where 
they  found  their  father,  who  had  been  transacting  business  for 
Lord  Cherbury  in  different  parts  of  the  town.  We  may  now  sup- 
pose him  in  the  possession  of  happiness,  blessed  as  he  was  in  the 
society.of  his  children,  and  the  certainty  of  a competence  ; but, 
alas  ! happiness  has  almost  ever  an  attendant  drawback,  and  he 
now  experienced  one  of  the  most  corroding  kind  from  the  altera- 
tion he  witnessed  in  his  son.  Oscar  was  improved  in  his  person, 
but  his  eyes  no  longer  beamed  with  animation,  and  the  rose  upon 
his  cheek  was  pale  ; his  cheerfulness  no  longer  appeared  spon- 
taneous, but  constrained,  as  if  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  veiling 
deep  and  heartfelt  sorrow. . 

Fitzalan,  with  all  the  anxiety  and  tenderness  of  a parent,  del- 
icately expressed  his  wish  of  learning  the  source  of  his  uneasiness, 
that  by  so  doing  he  might  be  better  qualified  to  alleviate  it,  hint- 
ing at  the  same  time,  in  indirect  terms,  that  if  occasioned  by  any 
of  the  imprudences  which  youth  is  sometimes  inadvertently  led 
into,  he  would  readily  excuse  them,  from  a certainty  that  he  who 
repented  never  would  again  commit  them.  Oscar  started  from 
the  remotest  hint  of  divulging  his  uneasiness  ; he  begged  his 
father,  however,  to  believe  (since  he  had  unfortunately  perceived 
:t)  that  it  was  not  derived  from  imprudence ; he  pretended  to  say 
it  was  but  a slight  chagrin,  which  would  soon  wear  away  of  itself 
if  not  renewed  by  inquiries.  Fitzalan,  however,  was  too  much 
affected  by  the  subject  to  drop  it  as  readily  as  Oscar  wished. 
After  regarding  him  for  a few  minutes  with  an  attention  as  mourn- 
ful as  fixed,  while  they  sat  around  the  table  after  dinner,  he  sud- 
denly exclaimed,  ‘ Alas  ! my  dear  boy,  I fear  things  are  worse 
within  than  you  will  allow.’  ‘Now,  indeed,  Oscar,’  cried  Amanda, 
sweetly  smiling  on  him,  anxious  to  relieve  him  from  the  embar 


76 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


rassment  these  words  had  involved  him  in,  and  to  dissipate  the 
deep  gloom  of  her  father’s  brow,  ‘ though  never  in  the  wars,  I 
fancy  you  are  not  quite  heart  whole.’  He  answered  her  with 
affected  gayety,  but,  as  if  wishing  to  change  the  discourse,  sudden- 
ly spoke  of  Colonel  Belgrave,  who,  at  present,  he  said,  was  absent 
from  the  regiment  ; occupied  by  his  own  feelings,  he  observed  not 
the  glow  which  mantled  the  cheeks  of  his  father  and  sister  at  that 
name. 

‘You  know  Mrs.  Belgrave,’  said  Amanda,  endeavoring  to  re- 
gain her  composure.  ‘ Know  her  ! ’ repeated  he,  with  an  involun- 
tary sigh,  ‘ oh,  yes  ! ’ Then,  after  the  pause  of  a few  minutes,  turn- 
ing to  his  father,  ‘I  believe  I have  already  informed  you,  sir,’  he 
said,  ‘that  she  is  the  daughter  of  your  brave  old  friend.  General 
Honeywood,  who,  I assure  you,  paid  me  no  little  attention  on 
your  account ; his  house  is  quite  the  temple  of  hospitality,  and  she 
the  little  presiding  goddess.  ’ ‘ She  is  happy,  I hope,’  said  Amanda. 

‘Oh,  surely,’*  replied  Oscar,  little  thinking  of  the  secret  motive 
his  sister  had  for  asking  such  a question,  ‘ she  possesses  what  the 
world  thinks  necessary  to  constitute  felicity.’ 

Fitzalan  had  accounted  to  his  son  for  leaving  Devonshire,  by 
saying  the  air  had  disagreed  with  Amanda ; he  told  him  of  the 
friendship  of  Lord  Cherbury,  from  which  he  said  he  trusted  short- 
ly to  be  able  to  have  him  promoted.  ‘ Be  assured,  my  dear  Oscar,^ 
he  cried,  ‘ most  willingly  would  I relinquish  many  of  the  comforts 
of  life  to  attain  the  ability  of  hastening  your  advancement,  or  add* 
ing  to  your  happiness.’  ‘My  happiness'!’  Oscar  mournfully 
repeated ; tears  filled  his  eyes ; he  could  no  longer  restrain  them  ; 
and  starting  up,  hurried  to  a window..  Amanda  followed,  unut- 
terably affected  at  his  emotion  : ‘Oscar,  my  dear  Oscar,’  said  she, 
and  she  fiung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  ‘you  distress  me  beyond 
example.’  He  sat  down,  and  leaning  his  head  on  her  bosom,  as 
she  stood  before  him,  his  tears  fell  through  her  handkerchief. 
‘O  Heavens!’  exclaimed  Fitzalan,  clasping  his  hands  together, 
‘what  a sight  is  this  ! Oh  ! my  children,  from  your  felicity  alone 
could  I ever  derive  any  ; if  the  hope  I entertained  of  that  felicity 
is  disappointed,  the  heart  which  cherished  it  must  soon  be  silent.^ 
He  arose  and  went  to  them:  ‘Yet,’  continued  he,  ‘amid  the 
anguish  of  this  moment,  I feel  a ray  of  pleasure  at  perceiving  an 
affection  so  strong  and  tender  between  you  ; it  will  be  a mutual 
consolation  and  support  when  the  feeble  help  and  protection  I can 
give  is  finally  removed  ; oh  ! then,  my  Oscar,’  he  proceeded,  while 
he  folded  their  united  hands  in  his,  ‘ become  the  soothing  friend 
and  guardian  of  this  dear,  this  amiable,  this  too  lovely  girl— let 
her  not  too  severely  feel — too  bitterly  mourn — the  loss  of  an  un- 
happy father ! ’ 

Amanda’s  tears  began  to  stream,  and  Oscar’s  for  a few  minutes 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


7? 


Were  increased.  ‘Excuse  me,’  at  last  he  said,  making  an  effort 
to  exert  himself,  to  his  father,  ‘ and  be  assured,  to  the  utmost  of  my 
ability,  I will  ever  obey  your  wishes,  and  fulfill  your  expecta- 
tions; I am  ashamed  of  the  weakness  I have  betrayed — I will 
yield  to  it  no  more— forget  therefore  your  having  seen  it,  or  at 
least  remember  it  with  pain,  as  I solemnly  assure  you,  no  effort 
on  my  part  shall  be  untried  to  conquer  it  entirely  ; and  now  let  the 
short  time  we  have  to  continue  together  be  devoted  to  cheerfulness.^ 

Soon  after  this  he  mentioned  Parker’s  performance  in  Marl- 
borough Green,  and  proposed,  as  it  was  now  the  hour,  taking  Am- 
anda there  ; the  proposal  was  not  objected  to,  and  Ellen,  who  they 
knew  would  particularly  delight  in  such  an  amusement,  was  com- 
mitted to  the  care  of  Oscar’s  servant,  a smart  young  soldier,  who 
escorted  her  with  much  gallantry  ; the  Green  was  extremely 
crowded,  particularly  with  officers,  whose  wandering  glances 
were  soon  attracted  to  Amanda,  as  one  of  most  elegant  girls  pres- 
ent. Oscar  was  soon  surrounded  by  them,  and  compelled,  not 
only  to  gratify  their  curiosity  by  discovering  who  she  was,  but 
their  gallantry  by  introducing  them  to  her.  Their  compliments 
soon  diverted  her  attention  from  the  exhibition,  and  Ellen,  who 
sat  behind  her  on  a bench,  afforded  innocent  mirth  by  her  re- 
marks. ‘Pless  her  soul  and  poty  too,’  she  said,  ‘ it  was  the  most 
comical  and  wonderful est  sight  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  porn 
days.’  A string  of  redcoats  would  have  attended  Amanda  to  the 
hotel  had  not  Oscar  prevented  it. 

The  next  day  was  devoted  to  visiting  the  public  buildings,  the 
park,  and  a few  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  its  vicinage.  On 
the  ensuing  morn  Eitzalan  and  Amanda  continued  their  journey 
to  the  north,  where  Oscar  assured  them  he  expected  leave  to  visit 
them  the  following  summer,  after  the  reviews  were  over  ; as  he 
helped  his  sister  in  the  carriage  she  put  a pocket-book  into  his  hand 
(given  by  her  father  for  that  purpose),  which  contained  something 
to  replenish  his  purse. 

Ere  we  attend  the  travelers,  or  rather  while  they  are  journey- 
ing along,  we  shall  endeavor  to  account  for  the  dejection  of  Oscar. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Prom  the  loud  camp  retired  and  noisy  court. 

In  honorable  ease  and  rural  sport ; 

The  remnant  of  his  days  he  safely  passed. 

Nor  found  they  lagged  too  slow  nor  flew  to  fast. 

He  made  his  wish  with  his  estate  comply, 

Joyful  to  live,  yet  not  afraid  to  die  : 

One  child  he  had— a daughter  chaste  and  fair, 

His  age’s  comfort,  and  his  fortune’s  heir.— Prior. 

Oscar’s  regiment,  on  his  first  joining  it  in  Ireland,  was  quan 
lered  in  Enniskillen,  the  corps  was  agreeable,  and  the  inhabitant# 


T8 


THE  C?HIEI)REN  OP  THE  ABBET. 


of  the  town  hospitable  and  polite.  He  felt  all  the  delight  of  9 
young  and  enterprising  mind,  at  entering,  what  appeared  to  him^ 
the  road  to  glory  and  pleasure  ; many  of  his  idle  mornings  were 
spent  in  rambling  about  the  country,  sometimes  accompanied  by 
a party  of  officers,  and  sometimes  alone. 

In  one  of  his  solitary  excursions  along  the  beautiful  banks  of 
Lough  Erne,  with  a light  fusee  on  his  shoulder,  as  the  woods, 
that  almost  descended  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  abounded  in 
game  ; after  proceeding  a few  miles  he  felt  quite  exhausted  by 
the  heat,  which,  as  it  was  now  the  middle  of  summer,  was 
intense  ; at  a little  distance  he  perceived  an  orchard,  whose  glow- 
ing apples  promised  a delightful  repast  ; knowing  that  the  fruit 
in  many  of  the  neighboring  places  was  kept  for  sale,  he  resolved 
on  trying  if  any  was  to  be  purchased  here,  and  accordingly 
opened  a small  gate,  and  ascending  through  a grass-grown  path 
in  the  orchard  to  a very  plain  white  cottage,  which  stood  upon  a 
gentle  sloping  lawn,  surrounded  by  a rude  paling,  he  knocked 
against  the  door  with  his  fusee,  and  immediately  a little  rosy  girl 
appeared  ; ‘tell  me,  my  pretty  lass,’  cried  he,  ‘whether  I can 
purchase  any  of  the  fine  apples  I see  here.’  ‘ Anan  !’ exclaimed 
the  girl  with  a foolish  stare.  Oscar  glancing  at  that  moment  into 
the  passage,  saw,  from  a half  opened  door,  nearly  opposite  to  the 
one  at  which  he  stood,  a beautiful  fair  face  peeping  out  ; he  in- 
voluntarily started,  and  pushing  aside  the  girl,  made  a step  into 
the  passage  ; the  room  door  directly  opened,  and  an  elderly  wom- 
an, of  a genteel  figure  and  pleasing  countenance,  appeared.  ‘ Good 
Heaven  ! ’ cried  Oscar,  taking  off  his  hat,  and  retreating,  ‘ I fear  I 
have  been  guilty  of  the  highest  impertinence  ; the  only  apology 
I can  offer  for  it  is  by  saying  it  was  not  intentional.  I am  quite  a 
stranger  here,  and  having  been  informed  most  of  the  orchards 
hereabouts  contained  fruits  for  sale,  I intruded  under  that  idea.’ 
‘Your  mistake,  sir,’  she  replied  with  a benevolent  smile,  ‘is  too 
trifling  to  require  an  apology  ; nor  shall  it  be  attended  with  any 
disappointment  to  you.’ 

She  then  politely  showed  him  into  the  parlor,  where,  with  equal 
pleasure  and  admiration, he  contemplated  the  fair  being  of  whom 
before  he  had  but  a transient  glance;  she  appeared  to  be  scarcely 
seventeen,  and  was,  both  as  to  face  and  figure,  what  a painter 
would  have  chosen  to  copy  for  the  portrait  of  a little  playful  Hebe ; 
though  below  even  the  middle  size,  she  was  formed  with  the  nicest 
symmetry ; her  skin  was  of  a dazzling  fairness,  and  so  transparent, 
that  the  veins  were  clearly  discernible;  the  softest  blush  of  nature 
shaded  her  beautifully  rounded  cheeks ; her  mouth  was  small  and 
pouting,  and  whenever  she  smiled  a thousand  graces  sported 
round  it ; her  eyes  were  full  and  of  a heavenly  blue,  soft,  yet  ani- 
mated, giving,  like  the  expression  of  her  whole  .countenance,  at 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  79 

once  an  idea  of  innocence,  spirit,  and  sensibility ; her  hair,  of  the 
palest  and  most  glossy  brown,  hung  carelessly  about  her,  and, 
though  dressed  in  a loose  morning-gown  of  muslin,  she  possessed 
an  air  of  fashion  and  even  consequence ; the  easy  manner  in  which 
she  bore  the  looks  of  Oscar,  proclaimed  her  at  once  not  unaccus* 
tomed  to  admiration,  nor  displeased  with  that  she  now  received 
for  that  Oscar  admired  her  could  not  but  be  visible,  and  he  some- 
times fancied  he  saw  an  arch  smile  playing  over  her  features,  at 
the  involuntary  glances  he  directed  toward  her. 

A fine  basket  of  apples,  and  some  delicious  cider,  was  brought  to 
Oscar,  and  he  found  his  entertainer  as  hospitable  in  disposition  as 
she  was  pleasing  in  conversation. 

The  beautiful  interior  of  the  cottage  by  no  means  corresponded 
with  the  plainness  of  the  exterior;  the  furniture  was  elegantly 
neat,  and  the  room  ornamented  with  a variety  of  fine  prints  and 
landscapes ; a large  folding  glass  door  opened  from  it  into  a pleas- 
ure-garden. 

Adela,  so  was  the  charming  young  stranger  called,  chatted  in 
the  most  lively  and  familiar  terms,  and  at  last  running  over  to 
the  basket,  tossed  the  apples  all  about  the  table,  and  picking  out 
the  finest  presented  them  to  Oscar.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say 
he  received  them  with  emotion  ; but  how  transient  is  all  sublunary 
bliss ! A cuckoo-clock,  over  Oscar’s  head,  by  striking  three,  re- 
minded him  that  he  had  passed  near  two  hours  in  the  cottage. 

‘ O Heavens  ! ’ cried  he,  starting,  ‘ I have  made  a most  uncon- 
scionable intrusion ; you  see,  my  dear  ladies,’  bowing  respectfully 
to  both,  ‘ the  consequence  of  being  too  polite  and  too  fascinating.’ 
He  repeated  his  thanks  in  the  most  animated  manner,  and  snatch- 
ing up  his  hat,  departed,  yet  not  without  casting 

One  longing,  lingering  look  behind. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  after  him  in  the  lawn  made  him  turn, 
and  he  perceived  the  ladies  had  followed  him  thither.  He  stopped 
again  to  speak  to  them,  and  extolled  the  lovely  prospect  they  had 
from  that  eminence  of  the  lake  and  its  scattered  islands.  ‘ I pre- 
sume,’ said  Adela,  handling  the  fusee^on  which  he  leaned,  ‘you 
were  trying  your  success  to-day  in  fowling  ? ’ ‘ Yes  ; but,  as  you 

may  perceive,  I have  been  unsuccessful.’  ‘ Then,  I assure  you,  ’ said 
she,  with  an  arch  smile,  ‘ there  is  choice  game  to  be  found  in  otir 
woods.’  ‘Delicious  game,  indeed  !’  cried  he,  interpreting  the 
archness  of  her  look,  and  animated  by  it  to  touch  her  hand,  ‘but 
only  tantalizing  to  a keen  sportsman,  who  sees  it  elevated  above 
his  reach.’  ‘ Come,  come,’  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  with  a sudden 
gravity,  ‘we  are  detaining  the  gentleman.’  She  took  her  fair  com- 
panion by  the  arm,  and  hastily  turned  to  the  cottage.  Oscar  gazed 
after  them  a moment,  then,  with  a half -smothered  sigh,  descended 


80  THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 

to  the  road.  He  could  not  help  thinking  this  incident  of  the  mom 
ing  very  like  the  novel  adventures  he  had  sometimes  read  to  his 
sister  Amanda  as  she  sat  at  work ; and,  to  complete  the  resem- 
bJance,  thought  he,  I must  fall  in  love  with  the  little  heroine. 
Ah  ! Oscar,  beware  of  such  imprudence  ! guard  your  heart  with 
all  your  care  against  tender  impressions,  till  fortune  has  been 
more  propitious  to  you  ! Thus  would  my  father  speak,  mused 
Oscar,  and  set  his  own  misfortunes  in  terrible  array  before  me, 
were  he  now  present ; well,  I must  endeavor  to  act  as  if  he  were 
here  to  exhort  me.  Heigh  ho  ! proceeded  he,  shouldering  his 
iusee,  glory  for  some  time  to  come  must  be  my  mistress  ! 

The  next  morning  the  fusee  was  again  taken  down,  and  he  sal- 
lied out,  carefully  avoiding  the  officers,  lest  any  of  them  should 
offer  to  accompany  him ; for  he  felt  a strange  reluctance  to  their 
participating  in  either  the  smiles  of  Adela  or  the  apples  of  the  old 
lady.  Upon  his  arrival  at  the  orchard,  finding  the  gate  open,  he 
advanced  a few  steps  up  the  path,  and  had  a glimpse  of  the  cot- 
tage, but  no  object  was  visible.  Oscar  was  too  modest  to  attempt 
entering  it  uninvited;  he  therefore  turned  back,  yet  often  cast  a 
look  behind  him ; no  one,  however,  was  to  be  seen.  He  now  be- 
gan to  feel  the  heat  oppressive,  and  himself  fatigued  with  his 
walk,  and  sat  down  upon  a moss-covered  stone,  on  the  margin  of 
the  lake,  at  a little  distance  from  the  cottage,  beneath  the  spreading 
branches  of  a hawthorn;  his  hat  and  fusee  were  laid  at  his  feet, 
and  a cool  breeze  from  the  water  refreshed  him ; upon  its  smooth 
surface  a number  of  boats  and  small  sail-vessels  were  now  glid- 
ing about  in  various  directions,  and  enlivened  the  enchanting 
prospect  which  was  spread  upon  the  bosom  of  the  lake;  from 
contemplating  it  he  was  suddenly  roused  by  the  warble  of  a fe- 
male voice ; he  started,  turned,  and  beheld  Adela  just  by  him. 
‘ Bless  me  ! ’ cried  she,  ‘ who  would  have  thought  of  seeing  you 
here ; why,  you  look  quite  fatigued,  and,  I believe,  want  apples 
to-day  as  much  as  you  did  yesterday?  ’ Then,  sitting  down  on  the 
seat  he  had  resigned,  she  tossed  off  her  bonnet,  declaring  it  was 
insupportably  warm,  and  began  rummaging  a small  work-bag 
she  held  on  her  arm.  Oscar  snatching  the  bonnet  from  the 
ground,  Adela  flung  apples  into  it,  observing  it  would  make  an 
excellent  basket.  He  sat  down  at  her  feet,  and  never,  perhaps, 
felt  such  a variety  of  emotions  as  at  the  present  moment;  his 
cheeks  glowed  with  a brighter  color,  and  his  eyes  were  raised  to 
hers  with  the  most  ardent  admiration ; yet  not  to  them  alone 
could  he  confine  the  expression  of  his  feelings ; they  broke  in  half- 
formed  sentences  from  his  lips,  which  Adela  heard  with  the  most 
perfect  composure,  desiring  him  either  to  eat  or  pocket  his  apples 
quickly,  as  she  wanted  her  bonnet,  being  in  a great  hurry  to  re- 
turn to  the  cottage,  from  which  she  had  made  a kind  of  stolen 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


81 


march.  The  apples  were  instantly  committed  to  his  pocket,  and 
he  was  permitted  to  tie  on  the  bonnet.  A depraved  man  might 
have  misinterpreted  the  gayety  of  Adela,  or  at  least  endeavored 
to  take  advantage  of  it ; but  the  sacred  impression  of  virtue,  which 
nature  and  education  had  stamped  upon  the  heart  of  Oscar,  was 
indelibly  fixed,  and  he  neither  suspected,  nor,  for  worlds,  would 
have  attempted  injuring,  the  innocence  of  Adela ; he  beheld  her 
(in  what  indeed  was  a true  light)  as  a little  playful  nymph,  whose 
actions  were  the  offspring  of  innocence. 

‘ I assure  you,’  exclaimed  she,  rising,  ‘ I am  very  loath  to  qui^ 
this  pleasant  seat ; but,  if  I make  a much  longer  delay,  I shall  find 
the  lady  of  the  cottage  in  anxious  expectation.  ’ ‘ May  I advance?  ’ 

said  Oscar,  as  he  pushed  open  the  gate  for  her.  ‘ If  you  do,  ’ re- 
plied she,  ‘ the  least  that  will  be  said  from  seeing  us  together,  is, 
that  we  were  in  search  of  each  other  the  whole  of  the  morning.’ 
‘ Well,’  cried  Oscar,  laughing  at  this  careless  speech,  ‘ and  if  they 
do  say  so,  it  would  not  be  doing  me  injustice.’  ‘Adieu,  adieu,’ 
said  she,  waving  her  hand,  ‘ not  another  word  for  a kingdom.’ 

What  a compound  of  beauty  and  giddiness  it  is  ! thought  Oscar, 
watching  her  till  she  entered  the  cottage.  As  he  returned  from 
the  sweet  spot  he  met  some  laborers,  from  whom  he  inquired  con- 
cerning its  owner,  and  learned  she  was  a respectable  widow  lady 
of  the  name  of  Marlowe. 

On  Oscar’s  return  from  Enniskillen,  he  heard  from  the  officers 
that  General  Honeywood,  an  old  veteran, wffio  had  a fine  estate 
about  fourteen  miles  from  the  town,  was  that  morning  to  pay  his 
compliments  to  them,  and  that  cards  had  been  left  for  a grand 
fete  and  ball,  which  he  annually  gave  on  the  1st  of  July,  to  com- 
memorate one  of  the  glorious  victories  of  King  William.  Every 
person  of  any  fashion  in  and  about  the  neighborhood  was  on  such 
occasions  sure  of  an  invitation ; and  the  officers  were  pleased  with 
theirs,  as  they  had  for  sometime  wished  for  an  opportunity  of  see- 
ing the  general’s  daughter,  who  was  very  much  admired. 

The  general,  like  a true  veteran,  retained  an  enthusiastic  at- 
tachment for  th^  profession  of  arms,  to  which  not  only  the  morn- 
ing, but  the  meridian  of  his  life  had  been  devoted,  and  which  he 
had  not  quitted  till  compelled  by  a debilitated  constitution.  Seated 
in  his  paternal  mansion  he  began  to  experience  the  want  of  a faith- 
ful companion,  who  would  heighten  the  enjoyments  of  the  tran- 
quil hour,  and  sooth  the  infirmities  of  age ; this  want  was  soon  sup- 
plied by  his  union  with  a young  lady  in  the  neighborhood,  whose 
only  dowry  was  innocence  and  beauty.  From  the  great  disparity 
of  their  ages  it  was  concluded  she  had  married  for  convenience ; 
but  the  tenor  of  her  conduct  changed  this  opinion, by  proving  the 
general  possessed  her  tenderest  affections;  a happier  couple  were 
not  known ; but  this  happiness  was  terminated  as  suddenly  as 


82 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


fatally  by  her  death,  which  happened  two  years  after  the  birth  of 
her  daughter ; all  the  general’s  love  was  then  centered  in  his  child^ 
Many  of  the  ladies  in  the  neighborhood,  induced  by  the  well- 
known  felicity  his  lady  had  enjoyed,  or  by  the  largeness  of  his 
fortune,  made  attempts  to  engage  him  in  matrimonial  toils ; but 
he  fought  shy  of  them  all,  solemnly  declaring  he  would  never 
bring  a stepmother  over  his  dear  girl.  In  her  infancy,  she  was 
his  plaything,  and  as  she  grew  up  his  comfort ; caressed,  flattered, 
adored  from  her  childhood,  she  scarcely  knew  the  meaning  of 
harshness  and  contradiction ; a naturally  sweet  disposition,  and  the 
superintending  care  of  an  excellent  woman,  prevented  any  pernic- 
ious effect  from  such  excessive  indulgence  as  she  received;  to  dis- 
guise or  duplicity  she  was  a perfect  stranger ; her  own  feelings  were 
never  concealed,  and  others  she  supposed  equally  sincere  in  reveal- 
ing theirs ; true,  the  open  avowal  of  her  regard  or  contempt  often 
incurred  the  imputation  of  imprudence ; but  had  she  even  heard  it 
she  would  have  only  laughed  at  it — for  the  general  declared  what- 
ever she  said  was  right,  and  her  own  heart  assured  her  of  the  in- 
nocence of  her  intentions.  As  she  grew  up  the  house  again  became 
the  seat  of  gayety,  the  general,  though  very  infirm,  felt  his  con- 
vivial spirit  revive ; he  delighted  in  the  society  of  his  friends,  and 
could  still 

Shoulder  his  crutch,  and  show  how  fields  were  won  I 

Oscar,  actuated  by  an  impulse,  which  if  he  could  he  at  least 
did  not  strive  to  account  for,  continued  daily  to  parade  before  the 
orchard,  but  without  again  seeing  Adela. 

At  length  the  day  for  General  Honey  wood’s  entertainment  ar- 
rived, and  the  officers,  accompanied  by  a large  party,  set  off  early 
for  Woodlawn,  the  name  of  the  general’s  seat.  It  was  situated  on 
the  borders  of  the  lake,  where  they  found  barges  waiting  to  convey 
them  to  a small  island,  which  was  the  scene  of  the  morning’s 
amusement;  the  breakfast  was  laid  out  amid  the  ruins  of  an 
ancient  building,  which,  from  the  venerable  remains  of  its  Gothic 
elegance,  was  most  probably,  in  the  days  of  religious  enthusiasm, 
the  seat  of  sacred  piety ; the  old  trees  in  groups  formed  a thick 
canopy  overhead,  and  the  ivy  that  crept  along  the  walls  filled  up 
many  of  the  niches  where  the  windows  had  formerly  been  ; those 
that  still  remained  open,  by  descending  to  the  ground,  afforded  a 
most  enchanting  prospect  of  the  lake ; the  long  succession  of  arches, 
which  composed  the  body  of  the  chapel,  were  in  many  places 
covered  with  creeping  moss,  and  scattered  over  with  wall-flowers, 
blue  hair-bells,  and  other  spontaneous  productions  of  nature ; while 
between  them  were  placed  seats  and  breakfast-tables,  ornamented 
in  a fanciful  manner. 

Jhe  officers  experienced  a most  agreeable  surprise  on  entering' 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


83 


but  how  inferior  were  their  feelings  to  the  sensations  which  Oscar 
felt,  when,  introduced  with  the  party  by  the  general  to  his  daugh* 
ter,  he  beheld  in  Miss  Honey  wood  the  lovely  Adela ! She  seemed 
to  enjoy  his  surprise,  and  Mrs.  Marlowe,  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table,  beckoned  him  to  her  with  an  arch  look ; he  flew  around, 
and  she  made  room  for  him  by  herself:  ‘ Well,  my  friend,’  cried 
she,  ‘ do  you  think  you  shall  And  the  general’s  fruit  as  tempting  as 
mine?  ’ ‘ Ah ! ’ exclaimed  Oscar,  half  sighing,  half  smiling,  ‘ Hes- 
perian fruit,  I fear,  which  I can  never  hope  to  obtain.’  Adela’s at- 
tention, during  breakfast,  was  too  much  engrossed  by  the  company 
to  allow  her  to  notice  Oscar  more  than  by  a few  hasty  words  and 
smiles.  There  being  no  dancing  till  the  evening,  the  company, 
after  breakfast,  dispersed  according  to  their  various  inclinations. 

The  island  was  diversified  with  little  acclivities,  and  scattered 
over  with  wild  shrubs,  which  embalmed  the  air;  temporary  arbors 
of  laurel,  intermingled  with  lilies,  were  erected  and  laid  out  with 
fruits,  ices,  and  other  refreshments ; upon  the  edge  of  the  water  a 
marquee  was  pitched  for  the  regimental  band,  which  Colonel  Bel- 
grave  had  politely  complimented  the  general  with ; a flag  was 
hoisted  on  it,  and  upon  a low  eminence  a few  small  field-pieces 
were  mounted ; attendants  were  everywhere  dispersed,  dressed  in 
white  streamers,  ornamented  with  a profusion  of  orange-colored 
ribbons;  the  boatmen  were  dressed  in  the  same  livery;  and  the 
barges,  in  which  several  of  the  party  were  to  visit  the  other  islands, 
made  a picturesque  appearance  with  their  gay  streamers  fluttering 
in  the  breeze;  the  music,  now  softly  dying  away  upon  the  water, 
now  gradually  swelling  on  the  breeze,  and  echoed  back  by  the 
neighboring  hills,  added  to  the  pleasures  of  the  scene. 

Oscar  followed  the  footsteps  of  Adela;  but  at  the  very  moment 
in  which  he  saw  her  disengaged  from  a large  party,  the  general 
hallooed  to  him  from  a shady  bank  on  which  he  sat ; Oscar  could 
not  refuse  the  summons ; and,  as  he  approached,  the  general,  ex- 
tending his  hand,  gave  him  a cordial  squeeze,  and  welcomed  him 
as  the  son  of  a brave  man  he  had  once  intimately  known.  ‘ I re- 
collected the  name  of  Fitzalan,’  said  he,  ‘the  moment  I heard  it 
mentioned ; and  had  the  happiness  of  learning  from  Colonel  Bei- 
grave  I was  not  mistaken  in  believing  you  to  be  the  son  of  my  old 
friend.’  He  now  made  several  inquiries  concerning  Fitzalan,  and 
the  affectionate  manner  in  which  he  mentioned  him  was  truly 
pleasing  to  Oscar.  ‘ He  had  once,’  he  said,  ‘ saved  his  life  at  the 
imminent  danger  of  his  own,  and  it  was  an  obligation,  while  that 
life  remained,  he  could  not  forget.’ 

Like  Don  Guzman  in  Gil  Bias,  the  general  delighted  in  fighting 
over  his  battles,  and  now  proceeded  to  enumerate  many  incidents 
which  happened  during  the  American  war,  when  he  and  Fitzalan 
served  in  the  same  regiment.  Oscar  could  well  have  dispensed 


rHE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


e4 

with  such  an  enumeration ; but  the  general,  who  had  no  idea  that 
he  was  not  as  much  delighted  in  listening  as  he  was  in  speaking, 
still  went  on.  Adela  had  been  watching  them  some  time;  her 
patience  at  length,  like  Oscar’s,  being  exhausted,  she  ran  forward 
and  told  her  father  ‘ he  must  not  detain  him  another  minute,  for 
they  were  going  upon  the  lake;  and  you  know,  papa,’  cried  she, 
* against  we  come  back,  you  can  have  all  your  battles  arranged  in 
proper  form,  though,  by  the  bye,  I don’t  think  it  is  the  business  of 
an  old  soldier  to  intimidate  a young  one  with  such  dreadful  tales 
of  iron  wars.’  The  general  called  her  a saucy  baggage,  kissed  her 
with  rapture,  and  saw  her  trip  off  with  his  young  friend,  who 
seized  the  favorable  opportunity  to  engage  her  for  the  first  set  in 
the  evening.  About  four  the  company  assembled  in  the  Abbey  to 
dinner;  the  band  played  during  the  repast;  the  toasts  were  pro- 
claimed by  sound  of  trumpet,  and  answered  by  an  immediate  dis- 
charge from  the  Mount.  At  six  the  ladies  returned  to  Woodlawn 
to  change  their  dresses  for  the  ball,  and  now 
Awful  beauty  put  on  all  its  charms. 

Tea  and  coffee  were  served  in  the  respective  rooms,  and  by  eleven 
the  ballroom  was  completely  crowded  with  company,  at  once  bril- 
liant and  lively,  particularly  the  gentlemen,  who  were  not  a little 
elevated  by  the  general’s  potent  libations  to  the  glorious  memory 
of  him  whose  victory  they  were  celebrating. 

Adela,  adorned  in  a style  superior  to  what  Oscar  had  yet  seen,  ap- 
peared more  lovely  than  he  had  even  at  first  thought  her;  her 
dress,  which  was  of  thin  muslin,  spangled,  was  so  contrived  as  to 
give  a kind  of  aerial  lightness  to  her  figure.  Oscar  reminded  her 
of  the  promise  of  the  morning,  at  the  very  moment  the  colonel  ap- 
proached for  the  purpose  of  engaging  her.  She  instantly  informed 
him  of  her  engagement  to  Mr.  Fitzalan.  ‘ Mr.  Fitzalan ! ’ repeated 
the  colonel,  with  the  haughty  air  of  a man  who  thought  he  had 
reason  to  be  offended ; ‘ he  has  been  rather  precipitate,  indeed ; but, 
though  we  may  envy,  who  shall  wonder  at  his  anxiety  to  engage 
Miss  Honey  wood?  ’ 

Dancing  now  commenced,  and  the  elegant  figure  of  Adela  never 
appeared  to  greater  advantage ; the  transported  general  watched 
every  movement,  and,  ‘ Incomparable,  by  Jove ! — what  a sweet 
angel  she  is ! ’ were  expressions  of  admiration  which  involuntarily 
broke  from  him  in  the  pride  and  fondness  of  his  heart.  Oscar,  too, 
whose  figure  was  remarkably  fine,  shared  his  admiration,  and  he 
declared  to  Colonel  Belgrave,  he  did  not  think  the  world  could 
produce  such  another  couple.  This  assertion  was  by  no  means 
pleasing  to  the  colonel ; he  possessed  as  much  vanity,  perhaps,  as 
ever  fell  to  the  share  of  a young  belle  conscious  of  perfections, 
and  detested  the  idea  of  having  any  competitor  (at  least  such  a 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


8i 

powerful  one  as  Oscar)  in  the  good  graces  of  the  ladies.  Adela, 
having  concluded  the  dance,  complained  of  fatigue,  and  retired  to 
an  alcove,  whither  Oscar  followed  her.  The  window  commanded  a 
view  of  the  lake,  the  little  island,  and  the  ruined  Abbey ; the  moon 
in  full  splendor  cast  her  silvery  light  over  all  those  objects,  giving 
a softness  to  the  landscape,  even  more  pleasing  than  the  glowing 
charms  it  had  derived  from  the  radiancy  of  day.  Adela  in  dancing 
had  dropped  the  bandeau  from  her  hair ; Oscar  took  it  up,  and 
still  retained  it.  Adela  now  stretched  forth  her  hand  to  take  it; 
‘ Allow  me,’  cried  he,  gently  taking  her  hand,  ‘ to  keep  it;  to-mor- 
row you  would  cast  it  away  as  a trifle,  but  I would  treasure  it  as 
a relic  of  inestimable  value ; let  me  have  some  memento  of  the 
charming  hours  I have  passed  to-day.’  ‘ Oh,  a truce,’  said  Adela, 
‘ with  such  expressions  [who  did  not,  however,  oppose  his  putting 
her  bandeau  in  his  bosomj ; they  are  quite  commonplace,  and  have 
already  been  repeated  to  hundreds,  and  will  again,  I make  no 
doubt.’  ‘ This  is  your  opinion?’  ‘ Yes,  really.’  ‘ Oh,  would  to 
Heaven,’  exclaimed  Oscar,  ‘ I durst  convince  you  how  mistaken 
a one  it  is.  ’ Adela,  laughing,  assured  him  that  would  be  a difficult 
matter.  Oscar  grew  pensive.  ‘ I think,’  cried  he,  ‘ if  oppressed  by 
misfortune,  I should  of  all  places  on  earth  like  a seclusion  in  the 
old  Abbey.’  ‘ Why,  really,’  said  Adela,  ‘ it  is  tolerably  calculated 
for  a hermitage ; and  if  you  take  a solitary  whim,  I beg  I may  be 
apprised  of  it  in  time,  as  I should  receive  peculiar  pleasure  in  pre- 
paring your  mossy  couch  and  frugal  fare.  ’ ‘ The  reason  for  my  lik- 
ing it,’  replied  he,  ‘ would  be  the  prospect  I should  have  from  it  of 
Woodlawn.’  ‘ And  does  Woodlawh,’  asked  Adela,  ‘ contain  such 
particular  charms,  as  to  render  a view  of  it  so  very  delightful?  ’ 
At  this  moment  they  were  summoned  to  call  a new  dance— a 
summons,  perhaps,  not  agreeable  to  either,  as  it  interrupted  an  in- 
teresting tete-a-tete.  The  colonel  engaged  Adela  for  the  next  set; 
and  though  Oscar  had  no  longer  an  inclination  to  dance,  to  avoid 
particularity  he  stood  up,  and  with  a young  lady  who  was  esteemed 
extremely  handsome.  Adela,  as  if  fatigued,  no  longer  moved  with 
animation,  and  suddenly  interrupted  the  colonel  in  a gallant  speech 
he  was  making  to  her,  to  inquire  if  he  thought  Miss  O’Neal  (Oscar’s 
partner)  pretty — so  very  pretty  as  she  was  generally  thought?’ 
The  colonel  was  too  keen  not  to  discover  at  once  the  motive  which 
suggested  this  inquiry.  ‘ Why, faith,’  cried  he  after  examining  Miss 
O’Neal  some  minutes  through  an  opera  glass,  ‘ the  girl  has  charms, 
but  so  totally  eclipsed,’  looking  languishingly  at  Adela,  ‘ in  my 
eyes,  that  I cannot  do  them  the  justice  they  may  perhaps  merit; 
Fitzalan,  however,  by  the  homage  he  pays  her,  seems  as  if  he  would 
make  up  for  the  deficiency  of  every  other  person.’  Adela  turned 
pale,  and  took  the  first  opportunity  of  demanding  her  bandeau 
from  Oscar ; he,  smilingly,  refused  it,  declaring  it  was  a trophy  of 


86 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


the  happiness  he  had  enjoyed  that  day,  and  that  the  general  should 
have  informed  her  a soldier  never  relinquished  such  a glorious 
memento.  ‘ Resign  mine,’  replied  Adela,  ‘ and  procure  one  from 
Miss  O’Neal.’ — ‘ No!  ’ cried  he,  ‘ I would  not  pay  her  charms  and 
my  own  sincerity  so  bad  a compliment,  as  to  ask  what  I should 
not  in  the  least  degree  value.  ’ Adela’s  spirits  revived,  and  she  re- 
peated her  request  no  more. 

The  dancing  continued  after  supper,  with  little  intermission,  till 
seven,  when  the  company  repaired  to  the  saloon  to  breakfast, 
after  which  they  dispersed.  The  general  particularly  and  affec- 
tionately bid  Oscar  farewell,  and  charged  him  to  consider  Wood- 
lawn  as  his  headquarters.  ‘Be  assured,’  said  the  good-natured 
old  man,  ‘ the  son  of  my  brave,  worthy,  and  long-respected  friend, 
will  ever  be  valuable  to  my  heart  and  welcome  to  my  home ; and 
would  to  Heaven,  in  the  calm  evening  of  life,  your  father  and  I 
had  pitched  our  tents  nearer  each  other.  ’ 

From  this  period  Oscar  became  almost  an  inmate  of  his  house, 
and  the  general  shortly  grew  so  attached  to  him,  that  he  felt  un- 
happy  if  deprived  of  his  society ; the  attentions  he  received  from 
Oscar  were  such  as  an  affectionate  son  would  pay  ^ tender  father; 
he  supported  his  venerable  friend  whenever  he  attempted  to  walk, 
attended  him  in  all  the  excursions  he  made  about  his  domain,  read 
to  him  when  he  wanted  to  be  lulled  to  sleep,  and  listened,  with- 
out betraying  any  symptoms  of  fatigue,  to  his  long  and  often  truly 
tiresome  stories  of  former  battles  and  campaigns;  in  paying  these 
attentions  Oscar  obeyed  the  dictates  of  gratitude  and  esteem,  and 
also  gratified  a benevolent  disposition,  happy  in  being  able 

To  rock  the  cradle  of  declining  age. 

But  his  time  was  not  so  entirely  engrossed  by  the  general  as  to 
prevent  his  having  many  hours  to  devote  to  Adela ; with  her  he 
alternately  conversed,  read,  and  sung,  rambled  with  her  through 
romantic  paths,  or  rode  along  the  beautiful  borders  of  Lough 
Erne ; was  almost  her  constant  escort  to  all  the  parties  she  went 
to  in  the  neighborhood,  and  frequently  accompanied  her  to  the 
hovels  of  wretchedness,  where  the  woes  which  extorted  the  soft 
tear  of  commiseration  he  saw  amply  relieved  by  her  generous  hand ; 
admiring  her  as  he  did  before,  how  impossible  was  it  for  Oscar,  in 
these  dangerous  tete-d-tetes,  to  resist  the  progress  of  a tender  pas- 
sion—a passion,  however,  confined  (as  far  at  least  as  silence  could 
confine  it)  to  his  own  heart.  The  confidence  which  he  thought 
the  general  reposed  in  him,  by  allowing  such  an  intercourse  with 
his  daughter,  was  too  sacred  in  his  estimation  to  be  abused ; but 
though  his  honor  resisted,  his  health  yielded  to  his  feelings. 

Adela,  from  delighting  in  company,  suddenly  took  a pensive 
turn;  she  declined  the  constant  society  shs  had  hitherto  kept 


THE  CHILDRE]Nf  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


87 


and  seemed  in  a solitary  ramble  with  Oscar  to  enjoy  more  pleasure 
than  the  gayest  party  appeared  to  alford  her;  the  favorite  spot 
they  visited  almost  every  evening  was  a path  on  the  margin  of 
the  lake,  at  the  foot  of  a woody  mountain ; here  often  seated,  they 
viewed  the  sun  sinking  behind  the  opposite  hills;  and  while  they 
enjoyed  the  benignaricy  of  his  departing  beams,  beheld  him  tinge 
the  trembling  waves  with  gold  and  purple ; the  low  whistle  of  the 
plowman  returning  to  his  humble  cottage,  the  plaintive  carol 
of  birds  from  the  adjacent  grove,  and  the  low  bleating  of  cattle 
from  pastures  which  swelled  above  the  water,  all  these, by  giving 
the  softest  and  most  pleasing  charms  of  nature  to  the  hour,  com 
trived  to  touch,  yet  more  sensibly,  hearts  already  prepossessed  in 
favor  of  each  other.  Adela  would  sometimes  sing  a little  simple 
air,  and  carelessly  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Oscar,  appear  to  enjoy 
perfect  felicity.  Not  so  poor  Oscar ; the  feelings  of  his  soul  at  these 
moments  trembled  on  his  lips,  and  to  repress  them  was  agony. 

An  incident  soon  occurred  which  endeared  him  yet  more  to  the 
general.  Driving  one  day  in  a low  phaeton  along  a road  cut  over 
a mountain,  the  horses,  frightened  by  a sudden  firing  from  the 
lake,  began  rearing  in  the  most  frightful  manner;  the  carriage 
stood  near  a tremendous  precipice,  and  the  servants,  appalled  by 
terror,  had  not  power  to  move.  Oscar  saw  that  nothing  but  an 
effort  of  desperate  resolution  could  keep  them  from  destruction ; 
he  leaped  out,  and,  rushing  before  the  horses,  seized  their  heads, 
at  the  eminent  hazard  of  being  tumbled  down  the  precipice,  on 
whose  very  verge  he  stood;  the  servants,  a little  relieved  from 
their  terror,  hastened  to  his  assistance;  the  traces  were  cut,  and 
the  poor  general,  whose  infirmities  had  weakened  his  spirits,  con- 
veyed home  in  almost  a state  of  insensibility.  Adela,  perceiving 
him  from  her  dressing  room  window,  flew  down,  and  learning 
his  danger,  fell  upon  his  neck  in  an  agony  of  mingled  joy  and 
terror;  her  caresses  soon  revived  him,  and  as  he  returned  them,  his 
eyes  eagerly  sought  his  deliverer.  Oscar  stood  near,  with  mingled 
tenderness  and  anxiety  in  his  looks;  the  general  took  his  hand, 
and  while  he  pressed  it  along  with  Adela’s  to  his  bosom,  tears  fell 
on  them.  ‘ You  are  both  my  children  ! ’ he  exclaimed;  ‘ the  chil- 
dren of  my  love,  and  from  your  felicity  I must  derive  mine.’ 
This  expression  Oscar  conceived  to  be  a mere  effusion  of  gratitude, 
little  thinking  what  a project  relative  to  him  had  entered  the  gen- 
eral’s head,  who  had  first,  however,  consulted  and  learned  from 
his  daughter  it  would  be  agreeable  to  her.  This  generous,  some 
will  say  romantic,  old  man,  felt  for  Oscar  the  most  unbounded 
love  and  gratitude,  and  as  the  best  proof  of  both,  he  resolved  to 
bestow  on  this  young  soldier  his  rich  and  lovely  heiress,  who  had 
acknowledged  to  her  father  her  predilection  for  him.  He  knew 
Ids  birth  to  be  noble,  his  disposition  amiable,  and  his  spirit  brave; 


88 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


besides,  hj  this  union  he  should  secure  the  society  of  Adela.  He 
wished  her  married,  yet  dreaded,  whenever  that  event  took  place, 
he  should  be  deprived  of  her ; but  Oscar,  he  supposed,  bound  to 
him  by  gratitude,  would,  unlike  others,  accede  to  his  wishes  of  re- 
siding at  Woodlawn  during  his  lifetime.  His  project  he  resolved 
on  communicating  to  Colonel  Belgrave,  whom,  on 'Oscar’s  ac- 
count, he  regarded,  as  Oscar  had  said  (what  indeed  he  believed), 
that  he  was  partly  indebted  to  him  for  his  commission. 

What  a thunder-stroke  was  this  to  Belgrave,  who  arrived  at 
Woodlawn  the  morning  after  the  resolution  was  finally  settled, 
and  was  asked  to  accompany  the  general,  about  a little  business,  to 
the  summer-house  in  the  garden.  Poor  Oscar  trembled ; he  felt  a 
presentiment  he  should  be  the  subject  of  discourse,  and  had  no 
doubt  but  the  general  meant  to  complain  to  Colonel  Belgrave,  as  a 
person  who  had  some  authority  over  him,  about  his  great  par- 
ticularity to  Miss  Honey  wood. 

Rage,  envy,  and  surprise  kept  the  colonel  silent  some  minutes 
after  the  general  had  ended  speaking;  dissimulation  then  came  to 
his  aid,  and  he  attempted,  though  in  faltering  accents,  to  express 
his  admiration  of  such  generosity ; yet  to  bestow  such  a treasure, 
so  inestimable,  on  such  a man,  when  so  many  of  equal  rank  and 
fortune  sighed  for  its  possession ; upon  a man,  too,  or  rather  a boy, 
from  whose  age  it  might  be  expected  his  affections  would  be  vari- 
able. ‘ Let  me  tell  you,  colonel,’  said  the  general,  hastily  inter- 
rupting him,  and  striking  his  stick  upon  the  ground,  as  he  rose  to 
return  to  the  house,  ‘ there  can  be  little  danger  of  his  affections 
changing  when  such  a girl  as  Adela  is  his  wife;  so  touch  no  more 
upon  that  subject,  I entreat  you ; but  you  must  break  the  affair 
to  the  young  fellow,  for  I should  be  in  such  a confounded  flurry 
I should  set  all  in  confusion,  and  beat  an  alarm  at  the  first  onset.’ 

The  gloom  and  embarrassment  which  appeared  in  the  counte- 
nance of  the  colonel  filled  Oscar  with  alarms ; he  imagined  them 
excited  by  friendship  for  him.  After  what  the  general  had  said, 
he  sighed  to  hear  particulars,  and  longed,  for  the  first  time,  to  quit 
Woodlawn.  The  colonel  was  indeed  in  a state  of  torture;  he  had 
long  meditated  the  conquest  of  Adela,  whose  fortune  and  beauty 
rendered  her  a truly  desirable  object;  to  resign  her  without  one 
effort  of  circumventing  Oscar  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  To  blast 
his  promised  joys,  even  if  it  did  not  lead  to  the  accomplishment 
of  his  own  wishes,  he  felt  would  give  him  some  comfort,  and  he 
resolved  to  leave  no  means  untried  for  doing  so. 

They  set  off  early  in  the  morning  for  Enniskillen,  and  Belgrave 
sent  his  servant  on  before  them,  that  there  might  be  no  restraint 
the  conversation  he  found  Oscar  inclined  to  beginc 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


89 


CHAPTER  XIL 

Sincerity  I 

Thou  first  of  virtues,  let  no  mortal  leave 

Thy  onward  path,  although  the  earth  should  gape,, 

And  from  the  gulf  of  hell  destruction  cry 
To  take  dissimulation’s  winding  way.— Douglas. 

‘ Well,  colonel,’  said  Oscar,  ‘ I fancy  I was  not  mistaken  in  think* 
ing  the  general  wanted  to  speak  with  you  concerning  me ; I am  con- 
vinced you  will  not  conceal  any  particulars  of  a conversation  it 
may  be  so  essential  to  my  honor  to  hear.’  ‘ Why,  faith,’  cried 
the  colonel,  delighted  to  commence  his  operations,  ‘ he  was  mak- 
ing a kind  of  complaint  about  you ; he  acknowledges  you  a brave 
lad,  yet,  hang  him,  he  has  not  generosity  enough  to  reward  that 
bravery  with  his  daughter,  or  any  of  his  treasure.  ’ ‘ Heaven  is  my 
witness!  ’ exclaimed  the  unsuspicious  Oscar,  ‘ I never  aspired  to 
either;  I always  knew  my  passion  for  his  daughter  as  hopeless  as 
fervent,  and  my  esteem  for  him  as  disinterested  as  sincere ; I would 
have  sooner  died  than  abused  the  confidence  he  reposed  in  me,  by 
revealing  my  attachment;  I see,  however,  in  future,  I must  be  an 
exile  to  Woodlawn.’  ‘ Not  so,  neither,’  replied  the  colonel ; ‘ only 
avoid  such  particularity  to  the  girl ; I believe  in  my  soul  she  has 
more  pride  than  susceptibility  in  her  nature ; in  your  next  visit, 
therefore,  which,  for  that  purpose,  I would  have  you  soon  make, 
declare,  in  a cavalier  manner,  your  affections  being  engaged  pre- 
vious to  your  coming  to  Ireland ; this  declaration  will  set  all  to 
rights  with  the  general;  he  will  no  longer  dread  you  on  his 
daughter’s  account;  you  will  be  as  welcome  as  ever  to  Woodlawn, 
and  enjoy,  during  your  continuance  in  the  country,  the  society 
you  have  hitherto  been  accustomed  to.’  ‘ No,’  said  Oscar,  ‘ I can- 
not assert  so  great  a falsehood.’  ‘How  ridiculous!’  replied  the 
colonel ; ‘ for  heaven’s  sake,  my  dear  boy,  drop  such  romantic 
notions ; I should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  desire  you  to  in- 
vent a falsehood  which  could  injure  anyone;  but  no  priest  in 
Christendom  would  blame  you  for  this.  ’ ‘ And  suppose  I venture  it, 
what  will  it  do  but  bind  faster  round  my  heart  chains  already  too 
galling,  and  destroy  in  the  end  all  remains  of  peace  ? ’ 

‘ Faith,  Fitzalan,’  said  the  colonel,  ‘ by  the  time  you  have  had  a 
few  more  love  affairs  with  some  of  the  pretty  girls  of  this  king- 
dom, you  will  talk  no  more  in  this  way;  consider,  and  be  not  too 
scrupulous,  how  disagreeable  it  will  be  to  resign  the  general’s 
friendship,  and  the  pleasing  society  you  enjoyed  at  Woodlawn; 
besides,  it  will  appear  strange  to  those  who  knew  your  former  in- 
timacy; in  honor,  too,  you  are  bound  to  do  as  I desire  you,  for 
should  the  girl  have  been  imprudent  enough  to  conceive  an  attach- 
ment for  you,  this  will  certainly  remove  it;  for  pride  would  not 


90 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


allow  its  continuance  after  hearing  of  a favorite  rival;  and  the 
general  will  be  essentially  served.  ’ ‘ My  dear  colonel, ’ said  Oscar, 

his  eyes  suddenly  sparkling,  ‘ do  you  think  she  has  been  imprudent 
enough  to  conceive  a partiality  for  me  ?’  ‘I  am  sure,’  said  the 
colonel,  ‘ that  is  a question  I cannot  possibly  answer;  but,  to  give 
my  opinion,  I think,  from  her  gay,  unembarrassed  manner,  she 
has  not.’  ‘I  suppose  not,  indeed,’  cried  Oscar,  mournfully  sigh 
ing ; ‘ why,  then,  should  I be  guilty  of  a falsehood  for  a person  who 
is  already  indifferent  to  me  ? ’ ‘I  have  told  you  my  reason,’  re 
plied  the  colonel,  coldly ; ‘ do  as  you  please.’  They  were  now 
both  silent,  but  the  conversation  was  soon  renewed,  and  many 
arguments  passed  on  both  sides.  Oscar’s  heart  secretly  favored 
the  colonel’s  plan,  as  it  promised  the  indulgence  of  Adela’s  so- 
ciety; to  be  an  exile  from  Woodlawn  was  insupportable  to  his 
thoughts;  reason  yielded  to  the  vehemence  of  passion,  and  he  at 
last  fell  into  the  snare  the  perfidious  Belgrave  had  spread,  thus, 
by  a deviation  from  truth,  forfeiting  the  blessings  a bounteous 
Providence  had  prepared  for  him. 

Oh  ! never  let  the  child  of  integrity  be  seduced  from  the  plain 
and  undeviating  path  of  sincerity ; oh ! never  let  him  hope  by  ill- 
icit means  to  attain  a real  pleasure;  the  hope  of  obtaining  any  good 
through  such  means  will,  like  a meteor  of  the  night,  lallurebut  to 
deceive. 

Soon  after  his  fatal  promise  to  the  colonel,  a self-devoted  vic- 
tim, he  accompanied  him  to  Woodlawn;  on  their  arrival.  Miss 
Honeywood  was  in  the  garden,  and  Oscar,  trembling,  went  to  seek 
her;  he  found  her  sitting  in  a flower- woven  arbor — 

Herself  the  fairest  flower. 

Never  had  she  looked  more  lovely ; the  natural  bloom  of  her 
cheeks  was  heightened  by  the  heat,  and  glowed  beneath  the  care- 
less curls  that  fell  over  them ; and  her  eyes,  the  moment  she  beheld 
Oscar,  beamed  with  the  softest  tenderness,  the  most  bewitching 
sensibility.  ‘ My  dear,  dear  Fitzalan  ! ’ cried  she,  throwing  aside 
the  book  she  had  been  reading,  and  extending  her  hand,  ‘ I am 
glad  to  see  you ; I hope  you  are  come  to  take  up  your  residence 
for  some  time  at  Woodlawn.’  ‘ You  hope  ! ’ repeated  Oscar, 
mournfully.  ‘ I do,  indeed  ! but,  bless  me,  what  is  the  matter? 
You  look  so  pale  and  thin,  you  look  but  the  shadow  of  yourself,  or 
rather  like  a despairing  shepherd,  ready  to  hang  himself  on  the 
first  willow  tree  he  meets.’  ‘ I am  indeed  unhappy  ! ’ cried  Oscar; 
‘ nor  will  you  wonder  at  my  being  so  when  I acknowledge  I at  this 
present  time  feel  a passion  which  I must  believe  hopeless.  ’ ‘ Hope- 

less ! well,  now,  I insist  on  being  your  confidant,  and  then,’  smil- 
ing somewhat  archly,  ‘ I shall  see  what  reason  you  have  to  despair.^ 
‘Agreed,’  exclaimed  Oscar;  ‘ and  now  to  my  story;’  then  pausing 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


91 


a minute,  he  started  up.  ‘ No,’ continued  he,  ‘I  find  it  impos* 

sible  to  tell  it ; let  this  dear,  this  estimable  object,’  drawing*  a 

miniature  of  his  sister  from  his  bosom,  ‘ speak  for  me,  and  declare 
whether  he  who  loves  such  a being  can  ever  lose  that  love,  or  help 
being  wretched  at  knowing  it  is  without  hope.’ 

Adela  snatched  it  hastily  from  him  and  by  a sudden  start  be- 
trayed her  surprise ; words  indeed  are  inadequate  to  express  her 
heart-rending  emotions  as  she  contemplated  the  beautiful  counten- 
ance of  her  imaginary  rival;  and  was  Oscar,  then — that  Oscar 
whom  she  adored — whose  happiness  she  had  hoped  to  constitute — 
whose  fortune  she  delighted  to  think  she  should  advance — really  at- 
tached to  another;  alas!  too  true,  he  was — of  the  attachment  she 
held  a convincing  proof  in  her  hand ; she  examined  it  again  and 
again,  and  in  its  mild  beauties  thought  she  beheld  a striking  proof  of 
the  superiority  over  the  charms  she  herself  possessed ; the  roses  for- 
sook her  cheeks,  a mist  overspread  her  eyes,  and  with  a shivering 
horror  she  dropped  it  from  her  hand.  Oscar  had  quitted  the  arbor 
to  conceal  his  agonies.  ‘Well,’  saidhe,  now  returning  with  forced 
calmness,  ‘ is  it  not  worthy  of  inspiring  the  passion  I feel  ? ’ Un- 
able to  answer  him,  she  could  only  point  to  the  place  where  it 
lay,  and  hastened  to  the  house.  ‘ Sweet  image  ! ’ cried  Oscar, 
taking  it  from  the  ground,  ‘ what  an  unworthy  purpose  have  I 
made  you  answer  ! — alas  ! all  is  now  over — Adela — my  Adela  ! — 
is  lost  forever  ! — lost — ah,  heavens  ! had  I ever  hopes  of  possess- 
ing her  ? — oh,  no ! to  such  happiness  never  did  I dare  to  look  for- 
ward. ’ 

Adela,  on  reaching  the  parlor  which  opened  into  the  garden^ 
found  her  father  there.  ‘ Ah  ! you  little  baggage,  do  I not  de 
serve  a kiss  for  not  disturbing  your  tete-a-tete  f Where  is  that 
young  rogue,  Fitzalan?’  ‘I  beg,  I entreat,  sir,’  said  Adela, 
whose  tears  could  no  longer  be  restrained,  ‘ you  will  never 
mention  him  again  to  me  ; too  much  has  already  been  said 
about  him.’  ‘ Nay,  pr’y thee,  my  little  girl,’  exclaimed  the 
general,  regarding  her  with  surprise,  ‘ cease  thy  sighs  and  tears, 
and  tell  me  what’s  the  matter.’  ‘I  am  hurt,’  replied  she,  in  a 
voice  scarcely  articulate,  ‘ that  so  much  has  been  said  about  Mr. 
Fitzalan,  whom  I can  never  regard  in  any  other  light  than  that 
of  a common  acquaintance.’  The  colonel,  who  had  purposely 
lingered  about  the  wood,  now  entered.  Adela  started,  and  pre- 
cipitately retreated  through  another  door.  ‘ Faith,  my  dear 
colonel,’  said  the  general,  ‘I  am  glad  you  are  come;  the  boy 
and  girl  have  had  a little  skirmish  ; but,  like  other  love  quarrels, 

I suppose  it  will  soon  be  made  up — so  let  me  know  how  the  lad 
bore  the  announcement  of  his  good  fortune.’  ‘ It  fills  a rational 
mind  with  regret,’  exclaimed  the  colonel,  seating  himself  gravely, 
and  inwardly  rejoicing  at  the  success  of  his  stratagem,  ‘ to  find 


92 


THE  CHILDREir  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


such  a fatality  prevalent  among  mankind  as  makes  them  reject  a 
protfered  good,  and  sigh  for  that  which  is  unattainable  ; like 
wayward  children,  neglecting  their  sports  to  pursue  a rainbow^ 
and  weeping  as  the  airy  pageant  mocks  their  grasp.’  ‘ Very  true^ 
indeed,’  said  the  general  ; very  excellent,  upon  my  word  ; I 
doubt  if  the  chaplain  of  a regiment  ever  delivered  such  a pretty 
piece  of  morality  ; but,  dear  colonel,’  laying  his  hand  on  his 
knee,  ‘what  did  the  boy  say  ?’  ‘I  am  sorry,  sir,’  he  replied, 
‘ that  what  I have  just  said  is  so  applicable  to  him.  He  acknowl- 
edged the  lady’s  merit,  extolled  her  generosity — but  pleaded  a 
prior  attachment  against  accepting  your  offer,  which  even  one 
more  exalted  would  not  tempt  him  to  forego,  though  he  knows 
not  whether  he  will  ever  succeed  in  it.’  ‘ The  devil  he  did  ! ’ ex- 
claimed the  general,  as  soon  as  rage  and  surprise  would  allow 
him  to  speak.  ‘ The  little  impertinent  puppy  ! the  ungrateful 
young  dog  ! a prior  attachment  ! — reject  my  girl — my  Adela — 
who  has  had  such  suitors  already  ; so,  I suppose  1 shall  have  the 
whole  affair  blazed  about  the  country  ; I shall  hear  from  every 
quarter  how  my  daughter  was  refused ; and  by  whom  ? — why, 
by  a little  ensign,  whose  whole  fortune  lies  in  his  sword-knot.  A 
fine  game  I have  played,  truly  ; but  if  the  jackanapes  opens 
his  lips  about  the  matter,  may  powder  be  my  poison  if  I do  not 
trim  his  jacket  for  him  ! ’ ‘ Dear  general,  ’ said  the  colonel,  ‘ you 

may  depend  on  his  honor  ; but  even  supposing  he  did  mention 
the  affair,  surely  you  should  know  it  would  not  be  in  his  power 
to  injure  Miss  Honeywood — amiable — accomplished — in  short, 
possessed,  as  she  is,  of  every  perfection.  I know  men,  at  least  one 
man  of  consequence,  both  from  birth  and  fortune,  who  has  long 
sighed  for  her,  and  who  would,  if  he  received  the  least  encourage- 
ment, openly  avow  his  sentiments.’  ‘Well,’ cried  the  general, 
still  panting  for  breath,  ‘ we  will  talk  about  him  at  some  future 
time  ; for  I am  resolved  on  soon  having  my  little  girl  married, 
and  to  her  own  liking,  too. ' 

Oscar  and  Adela  did  not  appear  till  dinner  time  ; both  had  been 
endeavoring  to  regain  composure  ; but  poor  Oscar  had  been  far 
less  successful  than  Adela  in  the  attempt  ; not  that  she  loved  less, 
for  indeed  her  passion  for  him  was  of  the  tenderest  nature,  and 
she  flattered  herself  with  having  inspired  one  equally  ardent  in 
his  breast.  Sanctioned  by  her  father,  she  thought  it  would  con- 
stitute the  felicity  of  their  lives,  and  looked  forward  with  a gen- 
erous delight  to  the  period  when  she  should  render  her  beloved 
Fitzalan  prosperous  and  independent.  The  disappointment  she 
experienced,  as  the  first  she  had  ever  met,  sat  heavy  on  her  heart, 
and  the  gay  visions  of  youth  were  in  one  moment  clouded  by 
melancholy  ; but  her  pride  was  as  great  as  her  sensibility,  and  as 
its  powerful  impulse  pervaded  her  mind,  she  resolved  to  afford 


THB  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


93 


Oscar  no  triumph  by  letting  him  witness  her  dejection  ; she 
therefore  wiped  away  all  traces  of  tears  from  her  eyes,  checked 
the  vain  sigh  that  struggled  at  her  heart,  and  dressed  herself 
with  as  much  attention  as  ever.  Her  heavy  eyes,  her  colorless 
cheeks,  however,  denoted  her  feelings  ; she  tried,  as  she  sat  at 
table,  to  appear  cheerful,  but  in  vain  ; and,  on  the  removal  of 
the  cloth,  immediately  retired,  as  no  ladies  were  present. 

The  general  was  a stranger  to  dissimulation,  and  as  he  no  longer 
felt,  he  no  longer  treated  Oscar  with  his  usual  kindness.  When 
pale,  trembling,  and  disordered,  he  appeared  before  him,  he  re- 
ceived him  with  a stern  frown  and  an  air  scarcely  complaisant. 
This  increased  the  agitation  of  Oscar ; every  feeling  of  his  soul  was 
in  commotion ; he  was  no  longer  the  life  of  their  company ; their 
happiness  and  mirth  formed  a striking  contrast  to  his  misery  and 
dejection ; he  felt  a forlorn  wretch — a mere  child  of  sorrow  and 
dependence;  scalding  tears  dropped  from  him  as  he  bent  over  his 
plate ; he  could  have  cursed  himself  for  such  weakness : fortunately 
it  was  unnoticed.  In  losing  the  general’s  attention,  he  seemed  to 
lose  that  of  his  guests;  his  situation  grew  too  irksome  to  be  borne; 
he  rose,  unregarded,  and  a secret  impulse  led  him  to  the  drawing- 
room. Here  Adela,  oppressed  by  the  dejection  of  her  spirits,  had 
flung  herself  upon  a couch,  and  gradually  sunk  into  a slumber. 
Oscar  stepped  lightly  forward,  and  gazed  on  her  with  a tenderness 
as  exquisite  as  a mother  would  have  felt  in  viewing  her  sleeping 
babe;  her  cheek,  which  rested  on  her  fair  hand,  was  tinged  with 
a blush  by  the  reflection  of  a crimson  curtain  through  which  the 
sun  darted,  and  the  traces  of  a tear  were  yet  discernible  upon  it. 
‘ Never ! ’ cried  Oscar,  with  folded  hands,  as  he  hung  over  the  inter- 
esting figure,  ‘ never  may  any  tear,  except  that  of  soft  sensibility 
for  the  woes  of  others,  bedew  the  cheek  of  Adela;  perfect  as  her 
goodness  be  her  felicity ; may  every  blessing  she  now  enjoys  be 
rendered  permanent  by  that  Power  who  smiles  benignly  upon  in- 
nocence like  hers ! Oh,  Adela ! he  who  now  prays  for  your  felicity 
never  will  lose  your  idea ; he  will  cherish  it  in  his  heart,  to  amelio- 
rate his  sorrows,  and,  from  the  dreary  path  which  may  be  appointed 
for  him  to  tread,  sometimes  look  back  to  happier  scenes ! ’ Adela 
began  to  stir ; she  murmured  out  some  inarticulate  words,  and,  sud- 
denly rising  from  the  couch,  beheld  the  motionless  form  of  Fitz- 
alan ; haughtily  regarding  him,  she  asked  the  meaning  of  such  an 
intrusion.  ‘ I did  not  mean  indeed  to  intrude,’  said  he ; ‘ but  when 
I came  and  found  you,  can  you  wonder  at  my  being  fascinated  to 
the  spot?  ’ The  plaintive  tone  of  his  voice  sunk  deep  into  Adela’s 
heart;  she  sighed  heavih^,  and  turning  away  seated  herself  in  a 
window.  Oscar  followed ; he  forgot  the  character  he  had  assumed 
in  the  morning,  and  gently  seizing  her  hand,  pressed  it  to  his 
bosom;  at  this  critical  minute,  when  mutual  sympathy  appeared 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


^4 

on  the  point  of  triumphing  over  duplicity,  the  door  opened,  and 
Colonel  Belgrave  appeared ; from  the  instant  of  Oscar’s  departure 
he  had  been  on  thorns  to  follow  him,  fearful  of  the  consequences 
of  a and  was  attended  by  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen. 

Oscar  was  determined  on  not  staying  another  night  at  Wood- 
lawn,  and  declared  his  intention  by  asking  Colonel  Belgrave  if  he 
had  any  commands  for  Enniskillen,  whither  he  meant  to  return 
immediately.  ‘ Why,  hang  it,  boy,’  cried  the  general,  in  a rougn 
grumbling  voice,  * since  you  have  stayed  so  long,  you  may  as  well 
stay  the  night;  the  clouds  look  heavy  over  the  lake,  and  threaten 
a storm.’  ‘ No,  sir,’  said  Oscar,  coloring,  and  speaking  in  the  agita- 
tion of  his  heart,  ‘ the  raging  of  a tempest  would  not  make  me  slay.’ 
Adela  sighed,  but  pride  prevented  her  speaking.  Fitzalan  ap- 
proached her:  ‘ Miss  Honey  wood,’  said  he — he  stopped — his  voice 
was  quite  stifled.  Adela,  equally  unable  to  speak,  could  only  en- 
courage him  to  proceed  by  a cold  glance.  ‘ Lest  I should  not,’  re- 
sumed he,  ‘ have  the  happness  of  again  visiting  Woodlawn,  I can- 
not neglect  this  opportunity  of  assuring  you  that  the  attention,  the 
obligations  I have  received  in  it,  never  can  be  forgotten  by  me; 
and  that  the  severest  pang  my  heart  could  possibly  experience 
would  result  from  thinking  I lost  any  part  of  the  friendship  you 
and  the  general  honored  me  with.’  Adela  bent  her  head,  and 
Oscar,  seeing  that  she  either  would  not,  or  could  not  speak,  bowed 
to  the  general  and  hurried  from  the  room ; the  tears  he  had  pain- 
fully suppressed  gushed  forth,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  he 
leaned  against  the  banisters  for  support ; while  he  cast  his  eyes 
around,  as  if  bidding  a melancholy  farewell  to  the  scene  of  former 
happiness,  a hasty  footstep  advanced,  he  started,  and  was  precipi- 
tately retreating,  when  the  voice  of  the  butler  stopped  him;  this 
was  an  old  veteran,  much  attached  to  Oscar,  and  his  usual  attend- 
ant in  all  his  fowling  and  Ashing  parties.  As  he  waited  at  tea, 
he  heard  Oscar’s  declaration  of  departing  with  surprise,  and  fo> 
lowed  him  for  the  purpose  of  expressing  that  and  his  conceri* 

^ Why,  Lord,  now,  Mr.  Fitzalan,’  cried  he,  ‘ what  do  you  mean 
leaving  us  so  oddly?  But  if  you  are  so  positive  about  going  to  En 
niskillen  to-night,  let  me  order  Standard  to  be  prepared  for  you.’ 
Oscar  for  some  time  had  had  the  command  of  the  stables ; but  know- 
ing as  he  did  that  he  had  lost  the  general’s  favor,  he  could  no  longer 
think  of  taking  those  liberties  which  kindness  had  once  invited  him 
to:  he  wrung  the  hand  of  his  humble  friend,  and  snatching  his  hat 
from  the  hail  table,  darted  out  of  the  house;  he  ran  till  he  came  to 
the  mountain  path  on  the  margin  of  the  lake.  ‘ Never,’  cried  he, 
distractedly  striking  his  breast,  ‘ shall  I see  her  here  again ! oh, 
never,  never,  my  beloved  Adela,  shall  your  unfortunate  Fitzalan 
wander  with  you  through  those  enchanting  scenes  : oh,  now  Iran 
sient  was  this  gleam  of  felicitv ! ’ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


95 


Exhausted  by  the  violence  of  his  feelings,  he  fell  into  a kind  of 
torpid  state  against  the  side  of  the  mountain;  the  shadows  of 
night  were  thickened  by  a coming  storm  ; a cool  blast  howled 
among  the  hills,  and  agitated  the  gloomy  waters  of  the  lake  ; 
the  rain,  accompanied  by  sleet,  began  to  fall,  but  the  tempest 
raged  unregarded  around  the  child  of  sorrow,  the  wanderer  of  the 
night.  Adela  alone. 

Heard,  felt,  or  seen, 

pervaded  every  thought.  Some  fishermen,  approaching  to  secure 
their  boats,  drove  him  from  this  situation,  and  he  flew  to  the 
woods  which  screened  one  side  of  the  house  : by  the  time  he 
reached  it  the  storm  had  abated,  and  the  moon,  with  a watery 
luster,  breaking  through  the  clouds,  rendered,  by  her  feeble  rays^ 
the  surrounding  and  beloved  scenes  just  visible. 

Adela’s  chamber  looked  into  the  wood,  and  the  light  from  it 
riveted  Oscar  to  a spot  exactly  opposite  the  window.  ‘ My  Adela,’ 
he  exclaimed,  extending  his  arms,  as  if  she  could  have  heard  and 
flown  into  them  ; then  dejectedly  dropping  them,  ‘she  thinks 
not  on  such  a forlorn  wretch  as  me  ; oh,  what  comfort  to  lay  my 
poor  distracted  head  for  one  moment  on  her  soft  bosom,  and  hear 
her  sweet  voice  speak  pity  to  my  tortured  heart  1 ’ Sinking  with 
weakness  from  the  conflicts  of  his  mind,  he  sought  an  old  roof- 
less root-house  in  the  center  of  the  wood,  where  he  and  Adela 
had  often  sat.  ‘ Well,’  said  he,  as  he  flung  himself  upon  the  damp 
ground,  ‘ many  a brave  fellow  has  had  a worse  bed  ; but  God 
particularly  protects  the  unsheltered  head  of  the  soldier  and  the 
afflicted.’  The  twittering  of  the  birds  roused  him  from  an  un- 
easy slumber,  or  rather  lethargy,  into  which  he  had  fallen  ; 
and  starting  up  he  hastened  to  the  road,  fearful,  as  day  was  be- 
ginning to  dawn,  of  being  seen  by  any  of  General  Honeywood’s 
workmen.  It  was  late  ere  he  arrived  at  Enniskillen,  and  before 
he  gained  his  room  he  was  met  by  some  of  the  officers,  who 
viewed  him  with  evident  astonishment  ; his  regimentals  wei*e 
quite  spoiled  ; his  fine  hair,  from  which  the  rain  had  washed  all 
the  powder,  hung  disheveled  about  his  shoulders  ; the  feather  of 
his  hat  was  broken,  and  the  disorder  of  his  countenance  was  not 
less  suspicious  than  that  of  his  dress  ; to  their  inquiries  he  stam- 
mered out  something  of  a fall,  and  extricated  himself  with  dif- 
ficulty from  them. 

In  an  obscure  village,  fifteen  miles  from  Enniskillen,  a de- 
tachment of  the  regiment  lay  ; the  officer  who  commanded  it  dis- 
liked his  situation  extremely  ; but  company  being  irksome  ta 
Oscar,  it  was  just  such  a one  as  he  desired,  and  he  obtained  leave 
to  relieve  him  : the  agitation  of  his  mind,  aided  by  the  effects  of 
the  storm  he  had  been  exposed  to,  was  too  much  for  his  constitn 


^6  TEE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

tiop.;  irnmediately  on  arriving  at  his  new  quarters  he  was  seized 
with  a violent  fever  ; an  officer  was  obliged  to  be  sent  to  do  duty 
hi  his  place,  and  it  was  long  ere  any  symptoms  appeared  which 
^'.ould  flatter  those  who  attended  him  with  hopes  of  his  recovery 
when  able  to  sit  up  he  was  ordered  to  return  to  Enniskillen, 
where  he  could  be  immediately  under  the  care  of  the  regimental 
■surgeon. 

Oscar’s  servant  accompanied  him  in  the  carriage,  and  as  it 
drove  slowly  along  he  was  agreeably  surprised  by  a view  of  Mrs. 
Marlowe’s  orchard  ; he  could  not  resist  the  wish  of  seeing  her, 
and  making  inquiries  relative  to  the  inhabitants  of  Woodlawn  ; 
lor  with  Mrs.  Marlowe,  I should  previously  say,  he  had  not 
only  formed  an  intimacy,  but  a sincere  friendship.  She  was  a 
woman  of  the  most  pleasing  manners,  and  to  her  superintend- 
ing care  Adela  was  indebted  for  many  of  the  graces  she  possessed, 
and  at  her  cottage  passed  many  delightful  hours  with  Oscar. 

The  evening  was  far  advanced  when  Oscar  reached  the  orchard, 
and  leaning  on  his  servant,  slowly  walked  up  the  hill : had  a 
specter  appeared  before  the  old  lady,  she  could  not  have  seemed 
more  shocked  than  she  now  did  at  the  unexpected  and  emaciated 
appearance  of  her  young  friend.  With  all  the  tenderness  of  a 
fond  mother,  she  pressed  his  cold  hands  between  her  own,  and 
seated  him  by  the  cheerful  fire  which  blazed  on  her  hearth,  then 
procured  him  refreshments  that,  joined  to  her  conversation,  a 
little  revived  his  spirits  ; yet,  at  this  moment,  the  recollection  of 
the  first  interview  he  ever  had  with  her  recurred  with  pain  to  his 
heart.  ‘ Our  friends  at  Woodlawn,  I hope,’  cried  he — he  paused — 
but  his  eye  expressed  the  inquiry  his  tongue  was  unable  to  make. 
‘They  are  well  and  happy,’  replied  Mrs.  Marlowe  ; ‘and  you 
know,  I suppose,  of  all  that  has  lately  happened  there  ? ’ ‘ No,  I 
know  nothing  ; I am  as  one  awoke  from  the  slumbers  of  the 
^rave.’  ‘Ere  I inform  you,  then,’  cried  Mrs.  Marlowe,  ‘let  me, 
my  noble  Oscar,  express  my  approbation,  my  admiration  of  your 
conduct,  of  that  disinterested  nature  which  preferred  the  preser- 
vation of  constancy  to  the  splendid  independency  offered  to  your 
acceptance.’  ‘ What  splendid  independency  did  I refuse  ?’  asked 
Oscar,  wildly  staring  at  her.  ‘ That  which  the  general  offered.’ 
“ The  general  ! ’ ‘Yes,  and  appointed  Colonel  Belgrave  to  de- 
clare his  intentions.’  ‘ Oh,  Heavens  ! ’ exclaimed  Oscar,  starting 
from  his  chair  ; ‘ did  the  general  indeed  form  such  intentions, 
and  has  Belgrave  then  deceived  me  ? He  told  me  my  attentions 
to  Miss  Honey  wood  were  noticed  and  disliked  I he  filled  my  soul 
with  unutterable  anguish,  and  persuaded  me  to  a falsehood  which 
has  plunged  me  into  despair  ! ’ ‘ He  is  a monster  ! ’ cried  Mrs. 

Marlowe,  ‘ and  you  are  a victim  to  his  treachery,’  ‘ Oh,  no ! I will 
.fly  to  the  general,  and  open  my  whole  sou]  to  him  ; at  his  feet  1 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


9 


will  declare  the  false  ideas  of  honor  which  misled  me  ; I shall 
obtain  his  forgiveness,  and  Adela  will  yet  be  mine.’  ‘ Alas  ! my 
child,’  cried  Mrs.  Marlowe,  stopping  him  as  he  was  hurrying  from 
the  room,  ‘ it  is  now  too  late  ; Adela  can  never  be  yours  ; she  is 
married,  and  married  unto  Belgrave.’  Oscar  staggered  back  a 
few  paces,  uttered  a deep  groan,  and  fell  senseless  at  her  feet- 
Mrs.  Marlowe’s  cries  brought  in  his  servant,  as  well  as  her  own,  to 
his  assistance ; he  was  laid  upon  a bed,  but  it  was  long  ere  he 
showed  any  signs  of  recovery  ; at  length  opening  his  heavy 
eyes,  he  sighed  deeply,  and  exclaimed,  ‘ She  is  lost  to  me  for- 
ever  ! ’ 

The  servants  were  dismissed,  and  the  tender-hearted  Mrs. 
Marlowe  knelt  beside  him.  ‘ Oh  ! my  friend,’  said  she,  ‘ my  heart 
sympathizes  in  your  sorrow  ; but  it  is  from  your  own  fortitude^ 
more  than  my  sympathy,  you  must  now  derive  resources  of  sup- 
port.’ ‘ Oh,  horrible  ! to  know  the  cup  of  happiness  was  at  my 
lips,  and  that  it  was  my  own  hand  dashed  it  from  me.’  ‘ Such,, 
alas ! ’ said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  sighing,  as  it  touched  at  the  moment 
with  a similar  pang  of  self-regret,  ‘ is  the  waywardness  of  mortals 
too  often  do  they  deprive  themselves  of  the  blessings  of  a 
bounteous  Providence  by  their  own  folly  and  imprudence — oh  I 
my  friend,  born  as  you  were  with  a noble  ingenuity  of  soul,  never 
let  that  soul  again  be  sullied  by  the  smallest  deviation  from  sin- 
cerity.’ ‘ Do  not  aggravate  my  sufferings,’  said  Oscar,  ‘ by  dwell- 
ing on  my  error.’  ‘ No,  I would  sooner  die  than  be  guilty  of  such 
barbarity  ; but  admonition  never  sinks  so  deeply  on  the  heart  as 
in  the  hour  of  trial.  Young,  amiable  as  you  are,  life  teems,  I 
doubt  not,  with  various  blessings  to  you — blessings  which  you 
will  know  how^  to  value  properly,  for  early  disappointment  is 
the  nurse  of  wisdom.’  ‘ Alas  ! ’ exclaimed  he,  ‘ what  blessings  V 
‘ These,  at  least,’  cried  Mrs.  Marlowe,  ‘ are  in  your  own  power — 
the  peace,  the  happiness,  which  ever  proceeds  from  a mind  con- 
scious of  having  discharged  the  incumbent  duties  of  life,  and 
patiently  submitted  to  its  trials.’  ‘But  do  you  think  I will 
calmly  submit  to  his  baseness?’  said  Oscar,  interrupting  her. 
‘No  ; Belgrave  shall  never  triumph  over  me  with  impunity  !’ 
He  started  from  the  bed,  and,  rushing  into  the  outer  room,, 
snatched  his  sword  from  the  table  on  which  he  had  flung  it  at  his 
entrance.  Mrs.  Marlowe  caught  his  arm.  ‘ Rash  young  man  ! ’ 
exclaimed  she,  ‘whither  would  you  go — is  it  to  scatter  ruin  and 
desolation  around  you  ? Suppose  your  vengeance  was  gratifled, 
would  that  restore  your  happiness  ? Think  you  that  Adela,  the 
child  of  virtue  and  propriety,  would  ever  notice  the  murderer  ot 
her  husband,  how  unworthy,  soever,  that  husband  might  be  ? Or 
that  the  old  general,  who  so  fondly  planned  your  felicity,  would 
forgive,  if  he  could  survive,  the  evils  of  his  house  occasioned  by 


^8 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


you  ? ’ The  sword  dropped  from  the  hand  of  the  trembling  OscaR 
‘I  have  been  blameabie,’ cried  he,  ‘in  allowing  myself  to  be 
transported  to  such  an  effort  of  revenge  ; I forgot  everything  but 
that  ; and  as  to  my  own  life,  deprived  of  Adela,  it  appears  so 
gloomy  as  to  be  scarcely  worth  preserving.’ 

Mrs.  Marlowe  seized  this  moment  of  yielding  softness  to  advise 
and  reason  with  him  ; her  tears  mingled  with  his,  as  she  listened 
to  his  relation  of  Belgrave’s  perfidy  ; tears  augmented  by  reflect- 
ing that  Adela,  the  darling  of  her  care  and  affections,  was  also  a 
victim  to  it.  She  convinced  Oscar,  however,  that  it  would  be 
prudent  to  confine  the  fatal  secret  to  their  own  breasts  ; the  agita- 
tion of  his  mind  was  too  much  for  the  weak  state  of  his  health  ; 
the  fever  returned,  and  he  felt  unable  to  quit  the  cottage  ; Mrs. 
Marlowe  prepared  a bed  for  him,  trusting  he  would  soon  be  able 
to  remove,  but  she  was  disappointed  ; it  was  long  ere  Oscar  could 
quit  the  bed  of  sickness  ; she  watched  over  him  with  maternal 
tenderness,  while  he,  like  a blasted  flower,  seemed  hastening  to 
decay. 

The  general  was  stung  to  the  soul  by  the  rejection  of  his  offer, 
which  he  thought  would  have  inspired  the  soul  of  Oscar  with 
rapture  and  gratitude  ; never  had  his  pride  been  so  severely 
wounded— never  before  had  he  felt  humbled  in  his  own  eyes  ; his 
mortifying  reflections  the  colonel  soon  found  means  to  remove, 
by  the  most  delicate  flattery,  and  the  most  assiduous  attention, 
assuring  the  general  that  his  conduct  merited  not  the  censure,  but 
the  applause  of  the  world.  The  sophistry  which  can  reconcile  us 
to  ourselves  is  truly  pleasing  ; the  colonel  gradually  became  a 
favorite,  and  when  he  insinuated  his  attachment  for  Adela,  was 
assured  he  should  have  all  the  general’s  interest  with  her.  He 
was  now  more  anxious  than  ever  to  have  her  advantageously 
^settled  ; there  was  something  so  humiliating  in  the  idea  of  her  be- 
ing rejected,  that  it  drove  him  at  times  almost  to  madness  ; the 
colonel  possessed  all  the  advantages  of  fortune  ; but  these  weighed 
little  in  his  favor  with  the  general  (whose  notions  we  have  already 
proved  very  disinterested),  and  much  less  with  his  daughter  ; on 
the  first  overture  about  him  she  requested  the  subject  might  be 
entirely  dropped  ; the  mention  of  love  was  extremely  painful  to 
her.  Wounded  by  her  disappointment  in  the  severest  manner, 
tier  heart  required  time  to  heal  it  ; her  feelings  delicacy  confined 
to  her  own  bosom  ; but  her  languid  eyes,  and  faded  cheeks, 
denoted  their  poignancy.  She  avoided  company,  and  was  per- 
petually wandering  through  the  romantic  and  solitary  paths 
which  she  and  Oscar  had  trod  together  ; here  more  than  ever  she 
thought  of  him,  and  feared  she  had  treated  her  poor  companion 
unkindly ; she  saw  him  oppressed  with  sadness,  and  yet  she  had 
driven  him  from  her  by  the  repulsive  coldness  of  her  manner — a 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


99 


manner,  too,  which,  from  its  being  so  suddenly  assumed,  could 
not  fail  of  conveying  an  idea  of  her  disappointment  ; this  hurt 
her  delicacy  as  much  as  her  tenderness,  and  she  would  have  given* 
worlds,  had  she  possessed  them,  to  recall  the  time  when  she  could 
have  afforded  consolation  to  Oscar,  and  convinced  him  that  solely 
as  a friend  she  regarded  him.  The  colonel  was  not  discouraged 
by  her  coldness  ; he  was  in  the  habit  of  conquering  difficulties,, 
and  doubted  not  that  he  should  overcome  any  she  threw  in  his 
way  ; he  sometimes,  as  if  by  chance,  contrived  to  meet  her  in  her 
rambles  ; - his  conversation  was  always  amusing,  and  confined: 
within  the  limits  she  had  prescribed;  hut  his  eyes,  by  the  tender- 
est  expression,  declared  the  pain  he  suffered  from  this  proscrip- 
tion, and  secretly  pleased  Adela,  as  it  convinced  her  of  the 
implicit  deference  he  paid  to  her  will. 

Some  weeks  had  elapsed  since  Oscar’s  voluntary  exile  from 
Woodland,  and  sanguine  as  were  the  colonel’s  hopes,  he  found 
without  a stratagem  they  would  not  be  realized,  at  least  as  soon 
as  he  expected  ; fertile  in  invention,  he  was  not  long  in  concern- 
ing one.  He  followed  Adela  one  morning  into  the  garden,  and 
found  her  reading  in  the  arbor  ; she  laid  aside  the  book  at  his 
entrance,  and  they  chatted  for  some  time  on  indifferent  subjects* 

The  colonehs  servant  at  last  appeared  with  a large  packet  of 
letters,  which  he  presented  to  his  master,  who  with  a hesita- 
ting air,  was  about  putting  them  into  his  pocket,  when  Adela  pre- 
vented him:  ‘Make  no  ceremony,  colonel,’ said  she,  ‘with  me; 
I shall  resume  my  book  till  you  have  perused  j^our  letters.  ’ The 
colonel  bowed  for  her  permission  and  began  ; her  attention  was 
soon  drawn  from  her  book  by  the  sudden  emotion  he  betrayed  ; 
he  started,  and  exclaimed,  ‘ Oh,  Heavens,  what  a wretch!’  then,  as* 
if  suddenly  recollecting  his  situation,  looked  at  Adela,  appeared 
confused,  stammered  out  a few  inarticulate  words,  and  resumed 
his  letter  ; when  finished,  he  seemed  to  put  it  into  his  pocket,  but 
in  reality  dropped  it  at  his  feet  for  the  basest  purpose.  He  ran  over 
the  remainder  of  the  letters,  and  rising,  entreated  Adela  to  excuse 
his  leaving  her  so  abruptly,  to  answer  some  of  them.  Soon  after 
his  departure,  Adela  perceived  an  open  letter  lying  at  her  feet  ; 
she  immediately  took  it  up  with  an  intention  of  returning  to  the 
house  with  it,  when  the  sight  of  her  own  name,  in  capital  letters, 
and  in  the  well-known  hand  of  Fitzalan,  struck  her  sight;  she 
threw  the  letter  on  the  table  ; an  universal  tremor  seized  her;  she 
would  have  given  any  consideration  to  know  wh}^  she  was  men- 
tioned in  a correspondence  between  Belgrave  and  Fitzalan  ; her 
eye  involuntarily  glanced  at  the  letter  ; she  saw  some  words  in 
it  which  excited  still  more  strongly  her  curiosity  ; it  could  no 
longer  be  repressed  ; she  snatched  it  up,  and  read  as  follows* 


100 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


TO  COLONEL  BELGRAVE : 

You  accuse  me  of  insensibility  to  what  you  call  the  matchless  charms  of  Adela,  am 
accusation  I acknowledge  I merit ; but  why,  because  I have  been  too  susceptible  to  those 
of  another,  which  in  the  fond  estimation  of  a lover  (at  least),  appeared  infinitely  superior. 
The  general’s  offer  was  certainly  a most  generous  and  flattering  one,  and  has  gratified 
every  feeling  of  my  soul,  by  giving  me  an  opportunity  of  sacrificing,  at  the  shrine  of 
love,  ambition  and  self-interest ; my  disinterested  conduct  has  confirmed  me  in  the  af- 
fections of  my  dear  girl,  whose  vanity  I cannot  help  thinking  a little  elevated  by  the 
triumph  I have  told  her  she  obtained  over  Adela ; but  this  is  excusable  indeed  when  we 
•consider  the  objects  I relinquished  for  her.  Would  to  Heaven  the  general  was  propitious 
to  your  wishes  ; it  would  yield  me  much  happiness  to  see  you,  my  first  and  best  friend, 
in  possession  of  a treasure  you  have  long  sighed  for.  I shall,  no  doubt,  receive  along 
lecture  from  you  for  letting  the  affair  relative  to  Adela  be  made  known,  but  faith  I could 
not  resist  telling  my  charmer.  Heaven  grant  discretion  may  seal  her  lips  ; if  not,  1 
suppose  I shall  be  summoned  to  formidable  combat  with  the  old  general.  Adieu  ! and 
believe  me. 

Dear  Colonel,  ever  yours, 

Oscar  Fitzalan. 

^ Wretch  ! ’ cried  the  agitated  Adela,  dropping  the  letter  (which 
it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  was  an  infamous  forgery)  in  an 
agony  of  grief  and  indignation,  ‘ is  this  the  base  return  we  meet 
for  our  wishes  to  raise  you  to  prosperity  ? Oh  ! cruel  Fitzalan,  is 
it  Adela — who  thought  you  so  amiable,  and  who  never  thoroughly 
valued  wealth,  till  she  believed  it  had  given  her  the  power  of 
conducing  to  your  felicity — whom  you  hold  up  as  an  object  of 
ridicule  for  unfeeling  vanity  to  triumph  over  ? ’ Wounded  pride 
and  tenderness  raised  a whirl  of  contending  passions  in  her  breast ; 
she  sunk  upon  the  bench,  her  head  rested  on  her  hand,  and  sighs 
and  tears  burst  from  her.  She  now  resolved  to  inform  Fitzalan 
she  knew  the  baseness  of  his  conduct,  and  sting  his  heart  with  keen 
reproaches  ; now  resolved  to  pass  it  over  in  silent  contempt. 
While  thus  fluctuating,  the  colonel  softly  advanced  and  stood  be- 
fore her  ; in  the  tumult  of  her  mind  she  had  quite  forgot  the 
probability  of  his  returning,  and  involuntarily  screamed  and 
started  at  his  appearance.  By  her  confusion,  she  doubted  not  but 
he  would  suspect  her  of  having  perused  the  fatal  letter.  Oppressed 
by  the  idea,  her  head  sunk  on  her  bosom,  and  her  face  was  cov- 
ered with  blushes.  ‘ What  a careless  fellow  I am  ! ’ said  the 
colonel,  taking  up  the  letter,  which  he  then  pretended  to  perceive  ; 
he  glanced  at  Adela.  ‘ Curse  it  ! ’ continued  he,  ‘ I would  rather 
have  had  all  the  letters  read  than  this  one.’  He  suspects  me, 
thought  Adela  ; her  blushes  faded,  and  she  fell  back  on  her  seat, 
unable  to  support  the  oppressive  idea  of  having  acted  against  the 
rules  of  propriety.  Belgrave  flew  to  support  her  : ‘ Loveliest  of 

women  ! ’ he  exclaimed,  and  with  all  the  softness  he  could 
assume,  ‘ what  means  this  agitation  ? ’ ‘I  have  been  suddenly 
affected,’  answered  Adela,  a little  recovering,  and,  rising,  she 
motioned  to  return  to  the  house.  ‘ Thus,’  answered  the  colonel, 

you  always  fly  me  ; but  go,  Miss  Honey  wood  ; I have  no  righl^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


101 


no  attraction,  indeed,  to  detain  you  ; yet,  be  assured,’  and  he 
summoned  a tear  to  his  aid,  while  he  pressed  her  hand  to  his* 
bosom,  ‘ a heart  more  truly  devoted  to  you  than  mine  you  can 
never  meet  ; but  I see  the  subject  is  painful,  and  again  I resume 
the  rigid  silence  you  have  imposed  on  me  ; go,  then,  most  lovely 
and  beloved,  and  since  I dare  not  aspire  to  a higher,  allow  me,  at 
le^t,  the  title  of  your  friend.’  ‘Most  willingly,’  said  Adela,. 
penetrated  by  his  gentleness.  She  was  now  tolerably  recovered, 
and  he  prevailed  on  her  to  walk  instead  of  returning  to  the  house 
she  felt  soothed  by  his  attention  ; his  insidious  tongue  dropped 
manna  ; he  gradually  stole  her  thoughts  from  painful  recol- 
lections ; the  implicit  respect  he  paid  her  well  flattered  her 
wounded  pride,  and  her  gratitude  was  excited  by  knowing  he  re- 
sented the  disrespectful  mention  of  her  name  in  Fitzalan’s  letter 
in  short,  she  felt  e^steem  and  respect  for  him — contempt  and  re- 
sentment for  Oscar.  The  colonel  was  too  penetrating  not  to  dis- 
cover her  sentiments,  and  too  artful  not  to  take  advantage  of 
them.  Had  Adela,  indeed,  obeyed  the  real  feelings  of  her  hearty 
she  would  have  declared  against  marrying  ; but  pride  urged  her 
to  a step  which  would  prove  to  Fitzalan  his  conduct  had  not  af- 
fected her.  The  general  rejoiced  at  obtaining  her  consent,  and 
received  a promise  that  for  some  time  she  should  not  be  sepa^ 
rated  from  him.  The  most  splendid  preparations  were  made  for 
the  nuptials  ; but  though  Adela’s  resentment  remained  unabated, 
she  soon  began  to  wish  she  had  not  been  so  precipitate  in  obeying 
it  ; an  involuntary  repugnance  rose  in  her  mind  against  the  con- 
nection she  was  about  forming,  and  honor  alone  kept  her  from 
declining  it  forever  ; her  beloved  friend,  Mrs.  Marlowe,  supported 
her  throughout  the  trying  occasion,  and,  in  an  inauspicious  hour,. 
Adela  gave  her  hand  to  the  perfidious  Belgrave. 

About  a fortnight  after  her  nuptials,  she  heard  from  some  of 
the  ofiicers  of  Oscar’s  illness  ; she  blushed  at  his  name.  ‘ Faith, ^ 
cried  one  of  them,  ‘ Mrs.  Marlowe  is  a charming  woman  ; it  is 
well  he  got  into  such  snug  quarters  ; I really  believe  elsewhere 
he  would  have  given  up  the  ghost.’  ‘ Poor  fellow,’ said  Adela, 
sighing  heavily,  yet  without  being  sensible  of  it.  Belgrave  rose, 
he  caught  her  eye,  a dark  frown  lowered  on  his  brow,  and  he 
looked  as  if  he  would  pierce  into  the  recesses  of  her  heart  ; she^ 
shuddered,  and  for  the  first  time  felt  the  tyranny  she  had  im- 
posed upon  herself.  As  Mrs.  Marlowe  chose  to  be  silent  on  the 
subject,  she  resolved  not  to  mention  it  to  her  ; but  she  sent  every 
day  to  invite  her  to  Woodlawn,  expecting  by  this  to  hear  some- 
thing of  Oscar  ; but  she  was  disappointed.  At  the  end  of  a fort- 
night, Mrs.  Marlowe  made  her  appearance  ; she  looked  pale  and 
thin.  Adela  gently  reproved  her  for  her  long  absence,  trusting 
this  would  oblige  her  to  allege  the  reason  of  it  ; but  no  such 


102 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


thing.  Mrs.  Marlowe  began  to  converse  on  indifferent  subjects  i 
Adela  suddenly  grew  peevish,  aud  sullenly  sat  at  her  work. 

In  a few  days  after  Mrs.  Marlowe’s  visit,  Adela,  one  evening  im- 
mediately after  dinner,  ordered  the  carriage  to  the  cottage  ; by 
this  time  she  supposed  Oscar  had  left  it,  and  flattered  herself,  in 
the  course  of  conversation,  she  should  learn  whether  he  was  per- 
fectly recovered  ere  he  departed.  Proposing  to  surprise  her  friend, 
she  stole  by  a winding  path  to  the  cottage,  and  softly  opened  the 
parlor  door  ; but  what  were  her  feelings,  when  she  perceived 
Oscar  sitting  at  the  fireside  with  Mrs.  Marlowe,  engaged  in  a deep 
conversation!  She  stopped,  unable  to  advance.  Mrs.  Marlowe 
embraced  and  led  her  forward.  The  emotions  of  Oscar  were  not 
inferior  to  Adela’s.  He  attempted  to  rise,  but  could  not.  A glance 
from  the  expressive  eyes  of  Mrs.  Marlowe,  which  seemed  to  con- 
jure him  not  to  yield  to  a weakness  which  would  betray  his  real 
sentiments  to  Adela,  somewhat  reanimated  him.  He  rose,  and 
tremblingly  approached  her.  ‘x\llowme,  madam,’  cried  he,  ‘to 

’ The  sentence  died  unfinished  on  his  lips  ; he  had  not 

power  to  offer  congratulations  on  an  event  which  had  probably  de- 
stroyed the  happiness  of  Adela,  as  well  as  his  own.  ‘ Oh  ! a truce 
with  compliments,’  said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  forcing  herself  to  assume 
a cheerful  air  ; ‘ prithee,  good  folks,  let  us  be  seated,  and  enjoy, 
this  cold  evening,  the  comforts  of  a good  fire.’  She  forced  the 
tivmbling,  the  almost  fainting,  Adela  to  take  some  wine,  and 
by  degrees  the  flutter  of  her  spirits  and  Oscar’s  abated,  but  the  sad- 
ness of  their  countenances,  the  anguish  of  their  souls,  increased. 

The  cold  formality,  the  distant  reserve  they  both  assumed, 
filled  each  with  sorrow  and  regret.  So  pale,  so  emaciated,  so  woe- 
begone did  Fitzalan  appear,  so  much  the  son  of  sorrow  and  de- 
spair, that  had  he  half  murdered  Adela,  she  could  not  at  that  mo- 
ment have  felt  for  him  any  other  sentiments  than  those  of  pity  and 
•compassion.  Mrs.  Marlowe,  in  a laughing  way,  told  her  of  the  trou- 
bles she  had  had  with  him : ‘ For  which,  I assure  you,  ’ said  she,  ‘ he 
rewards  me  badly  ; for  the  moment  he  was  enlarged  from  the  nur- 
sery, he  either  forgot  or  neglected  all  the  rules  I had  laid  down  for 
him.  Pray  do  join  your  commands  to  mine,  and  charge  him  to 
fake  more  care  of  himself.’  ‘ I would,  most  willingly,  ’ cried  Adela, 
‘if  I thought  they  would  influence  him  to  do  so.'  ‘Influence  !’ 
repeated  Oscar  emphatically;  ‘oh,  Heasrens  ! ’ then  starting  up, 
he  hurried  to  the  window,  as  if  to  hide  and  to  indulge  his  melan- 
choly. The  scene  he  viewed  from  it  was  dreary  and  desolate.  It 
was  now  the  latter  end  of  autumn  ; the  evening  was  cold,  a savage 
blast  howled  from  the  hill,  and  the  sky  was  darkened  by  a coming 
storm.  Mrs.  Marlowe  roused  him  from  his  deep  reverie.  ‘ I am 
sure,’  said  she,  ‘ the  prospect  you  view  from  the  window  can  have 
«io  great  attractions  at  present.’  ‘And  yet,’  cried  he,  ‘there  is 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


103 


something  sadly  pleasing  in  it ; the  leafless  trees,  the  fading  flow* 
ers  of  autumn,  excite  in  my  bosom  a kind  of  mournful  sympathy ; 
they  are  emblems  to  me  of  him  whose  tenderest  hopes  have  been 
disappointed  ; but,  unlike  him,  they,  after  a short  period,  shall 
again  flourish  with  primeval  beauty.’  ‘ Nonsense,  ’ exclaimed  Mrs. 
Marlow  ; ‘your  illness  has  affected  your  spirits  ; but  this  gloom 
will  vanish  long  before  my  orchard  reassumes  its  smiling  appear- 
ance, and  haply  attracts  another  smart  redcoat  to  visit  an  old 
woman.’  ‘Oh!  with  what  an  enthusiasm  of  tenderness,’ cried 
Oscar,  ‘ shall  I ever  remember  the  dear,  though  dangerous,  mo- 
ment I first  entered  this  cottage  ! ’ ‘ Now,  no  flattery,  Oscar,’  said 

Mrs.  Marlowe  ; ‘ I know  your  fickle  sex  too  well  to  believe  I have 
made  a lasting  impression  ; why,  the  very  first  fine  old  woman  you 
meet  at  your  ensuing  quarters,  will,  I dare  say,  have  similar  praise 
bestowed  on  her.’  ‘No,’  replied  he,  with  a languid  smile  ; ‘I  can 
assure  you,  solemnly,  the  impression  which  has  been  made  on  my 
heart  will  never  be  effaced.’  He  stole  a look  at  Adela  ; her  head 
sunk  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  violently.  Mrs. 
Marlowe  wished  to  change  the  subject  entirely  ; she  felt  the  truest 
compassion  for  the  unhappy  young  couple,  and  had  fervently 
desired  their  union  ; but  since  irrevocably  separated,  she  wished 
to  check  any  intimation  of  a mutual  attachment,  which  now  could 
answer  no  purpose  but  that  of  increasing  their  misery.  She  rung 
for  tea,  and  endeavored  by  her  conversation  to  enliven  the  tea-table ; 
the  effort,  however,  was  not  seconded.  ‘ You  have  often,  ’ cried  she, 
addressing  Adela,  as  they  again  drew  their  chairs  round  the  fire, 
‘desired  to  hear  the  exact  particulars  of  my  life  ; unconquerable 
feelings  of  regret  hitherto  prevented  my  acquiescing  in  your  de- 
sire ; but,  as  nothing  better  now  offers  for  passing  away  the  hours, 
I will,  if  you  please,  relate  them.’  ‘You  will  oblige  me  by  so 
doing,’  cried  Adela  ; ‘my  curiosity,  you  know,  has  been  long  ex- 
cited.’ 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault. 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay; 

I’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. — Goldsmith. 

To  begin,  then,  as  they  say  in  a novel,  without  further  preface, 
I was  the  only  child  of  a country  curate,  in  the  southern  part  of 
England,  who,  like  his  wife,  was  of  a good,  but  reduced  family. 
Contented  dispositions  and  an  agreeable  neighborhood,  ready  on 
every  occasion  to  oblige  them,  rendered  them,  in  their  humble 
situations,  completely  happy.  I was  the  idol  of  both  their  hearts; 
everyone  told  my  mother  I should  grow  up  a beauty,  and  she, 
poor  simple  woman,  believed  the  flattering  tale.  Naturally  ambi- 


104 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


tious,  and  somewhat  romantic,  she  expected  nothing  less  than  my 
attaining,  by  my  charms,  an  elevated  situation ; to  fit  me  to  it» 
therefore,  according  to  her  idea,  she  gave  me  all  the  showy,  instead 
of  solid  advantages  of  education.  My  father  being  a meek,  or 
rather  an  indolent  man,  submitted  entirely  to  her  direction ; thus, 
without  knowing  the  grammatical  part  of  my  own  language,  I 
was  taught  to  gabble  bad  French  by  myself ; and,  instead  of  mend- 
ing or  making  my  clothes,  to  flourish  upon  catgut  and  embroider 
satin.  I was  taught  dancing  by  a man  who  kept  a cheap  school 
for  that  purpose  in  the  village;  music  I could  not  aspire  to,  my 
mother’s  finances  being  insufficient  to  purchase  an  instrument; 
she  was  therefore  obliged  to  content  herself  with  my  knowing  the 
vocal  part  of  that  delightful  science,  and  instructed  me  in  singing  a 
few  old-fashioned  airs,  with  a thousand  graces,  in  her  own  opinioa 
at  least. 

To  makeme  excel  by  my  dress,  as  well  as  my  accomplishments,  all 
the  misses  of  the  village,  the  remains  of  her  finery  were  cut  and 
altered  into  every  form  which  art  or  ingenuity  could  suggest ; and, 
Heaven  forgive  me,  but  my  chief  inducement  in  going  to  church 
on  a Sunday  was  to  exhibit  my  flounced  silk  petticoat  and  painted 
chip  hat. 

When  I attained  my  sixteenth  year,  my  mother  thought  me, 
and  supposed  everyone  else  must  do  the  same,  the  most  perfect 
creature  in  the  world.  I was  lively,  thoughtless,  vain,  and  am- 
bitious to  an  extravagant  degree ; yet,  truly  innocent  in  my  dis- 
position, and  often,  forgetting  the  appearance  I had  been  taught 
to  assume,  indulged  the  natural  gayety  of  my  heart,  and  in  a game 
of  hide-and-go-seek,  among  the  haycocks  in  a meadow,  by  moon- 
light,  enjoyed  perfect  felicity. 

Once  a week,  accompanied  by  my  mother,  I attended  the  danc- 
ing-master’s school,  to  practice  country  dances.  One  evening  we 
had  just  concluded  a set,  and  were  resting  ourselves,  when  an  ele- 
gant youth,  in  a fashionable  riding  dress,  entered  the  room.  His 
appearance  at  once  excited  admiration  and  surprise ; never  shall  I 
forget  the  palpitation  of  my  heart  at  his  approach ; every  girl  ex- 
perienced the  same,  every  cheek  was  flushed,  and  every  eye 
sparkled  with  hope  and  expectation.  He  walked  round  the  room, 
with  an  easy,  unembarrassed  air,  as  if  to  take  a survey  of  the  com- 
pany ; he  stopped  by  a very  pretty  girl,  the  miller’s  daughter — 
Jpood  Heavens ! what  were  my  agonies ! My  mother,  too,  who  sat 
nesideme,  turned  pale,  and  would  actually,  I believe,  have  fainted, 
had  he  taken  any  farther  notice  of  her;  fortunately  he  did  not, 
but  advanced.  My  eyes  caught  his ; he  again  paused,  looked  sur- 
prised and  pleased,  and,  after  a moment,  passed  in  seeming  consid- 
eration, bowed  with  the  utmost  elegance,  and  requested  the  honof 
of  my  hand  for  the  ensuing  dance.  My  politeness  had  hitherto 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


105 


only  been  in  theory ; I arose,  dropped  him  a profound  curtseyt 
assured  him  the  honor  would  be  all  on  my  side,  and  I was  hajrpy 
to  grant  his  request.  He  smiled,  I thought,  a little  archly,  and 
coughed  to  avoid  laughing;  I blushed,  and  felt  embarrassed;  but 
he  led  me  to  the  head  of  the  room  to  call  a dance,  and  my  triumph 
over  my  companions  so  exhilarated  my  spirits,  that  I immediately 
lost  all  confusion. 

I had  been  engaged  to  a young  farmer,  and  he  was  enraged,  not 
only  at  my  breaking  my  engagement  without  his  permission,  but 
at  the  superior  graces  of  my  partner,  who  threatened  to  be  a for- 
midable rival  to  him.  ‘ By  jingo ! ’ said  Clod,  coming  up  to  me  in  a 
surly  manner,  ‘ I think.  Miss  Fanny,  you  have  not  used  me  quite 
genteelly;  I don’t  see  why  this  here  fine  spark  should  take  the 
lead  of  us  all.’  ‘ Creature ! ’ cried  I,  with  an  ineffable  look  of  con- 
tempt, which  he  could  not  bear,  and  retired  grumbling.  My 
partner  could  no  longer  refrain  from  laughing ; the  simplicity  of 
my  manners,  notwithstanding  the  airs  I endeavored  to  assume, 
highly  delighted  him.  ‘No  wonder,’  cried  he,  ‘ the  poor  swain 
should  be  mortified  at  losing  the  hand  of  his  charming  Fanny.  ’ 

The  dancing  over,  we  rejoined  my  mother,  who  was  on  thorns 
to  begin  a conversation  with  the  stranger,  that  she  might  let  him 
know  we  were  not  to  be  ranked  with  the  present  company.  ‘ I 
am  sure,  sir,’  said  she,  ‘ a gentleman  of  your  elegant  appearance 
must  feel  rather  awkward  in  the  present  party ; it  is  so  with  us,  as, 
indeed,  it  must  be  with  every  person  of  fashion ; but,  in  an  obscure 
little  village  like  this,  we  must  not  be  too  nice  in  our  society,  except, 
like  a hermit,  we  could  do  without  any.’  The  stranger  assented  to 
whatever  she  said,  and  accepted  an  invitation  to  sup  with  us;  my 
mother  instantly  sent  an  intimation  of  her  will  to  my  father,  to 
have,  not  the  fatted  calf,  indeed,  but  the  fatted  duck  prepared ; and 
he  and  the  maid  used  such  expedition,  that,  by  the  time  we  re- 
turned, a neat,  comfortable  supper  was  ready  to  lay  on  the  table. 
Mr.  Marlowe,  the  stranger’s  name,  as  he  informed  me,  was  all  an- 
imation and  affability;  it  is  unnecessary  to  say,  that  my  mother, 
father,  and  myself,  were  all  complaisance,  delight,  and  attention. 
On  departing,  he  asked,  and  obtained  permission,  of  course,  to  re- 
new his  visit  the  next  day;  and  my  mother  immediately  set  him 
down  as  her  future  son-in-law. 

As  everything  is  speedily  communicated  in  such  a small  village 
as  we  resided  in,  we  learned  that  on  the  preceding  evening  he  had 
stopped  at  the  inn,  and,  hearing  music,  had  inquired  from  whence 
it  proceeded,  and  had  gone  out  of  curiosity  to  the  dance.  We 
also  learned  that  his  attendants  reported  him  to  be  heir  to  a large 
fortune  ; this  report,  vain  as  I was,  was  almost  enough  of  itself  to 
engage  my  heart  ; judge,  then,  whether  it  was  not  an  easy  con- 
quest to  a person,  who,  besides  the  above-mentioned  attraction^ 


106 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


possessed  those  of  a graceful  figure  and  cultivated  mind.  He 
visited  continually  at  our  cottage  ; and  I,  uncultivated  as  I was, 
daily  strengthened  myself  in  his  affections.  In  conversing  with 
him  I forgot  the  precepts  of  vanity  and  affection,  and  obeyed  the 
dictates  of  nature  and  sensibility.  He  soon  declared  the  motives 
of  his  visits  to  me — ‘ To  have  immediately  demanded  my  hand,’  he 
said,  ‘ would  have  gratified  the  ten  derest  wish  of  his  soul  ; but,  in 
his  present  situation,  that  was  impossible.  Left,  at  an  early  age, 
destitute  and  distressed,  by  the  death  of  his  parents,  an  old 
whimsical  uncle,  married  to  a woman  equally  capricious,  had 
adopted  him  as  heir  to  their  large  possessions;  he  found  it  diffi- 
cult,’ he  said,  ‘ to  submit  to  their  ill-humor,  and  was  confident,  if 
he  took  any  step  against  their  inclinations,  he  should  forever  for- 
feit their  favor  ; therefore,  if  my  parents  would  allow  a reciprocal 
promise  to  pass  between  us,  binding  each  to  each,  the  moment  he 
became  master  of  expected  fortune,  or  obtained  an  independence, 
he  would  make  me  a partaker  of  it.’  They  consented,  and  he 
enjoined  us  to  the  strictest  secrecy,  saying,  one  of  his  attend- 
ants was  placed  about  him  as  a kind  of  spy.  He  had  hitherto 
deceived  him  with  respect  to  us,  declaring  my  father  was  an  inti- 
mate friend,  and  that  his  uncle  knew  he  intended  visiting  him. 
But  my  unfortunate  vanity  betrayed  the  secret  it  was  so  Inaterial 
for  me  to  keep.  I was  bound  indeed  not  to  reveal  it.  One  morn- 
ing a young  girl,  who  had  been  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  mine 
till  I knew  Marlowe,  came  to  see  me,  ‘ Why,  Fanny,’  cried  she, 
‘ you  have  given  us  all  up  for  Mr.  Marlowe  ; take  care,  my  dear, 
he  makes  you  amends  for  the  loss  of  your  other  friends.  ’ ‘ I shall 

take  your  advice,’  said  I,  with  a smile  and  a conceited  toss  of  my 
head.  ‘Faith,  for  my  part,’  continued  she,  ‘I  think  you  were 
very  foolish  not  to  secure  a good  settlement  for  yourself  with 
Clod.’  ‘ With  Clod  ! ’ repeated  I,  with  the  utmost  haughtiness. 
‘ Lord,  child,  you  forget  who  I am  ! ’ ‘ Who  are  you  ? ’ ex- 

claimed she,  provoked  at  my  insolence  ; ‘ oh,  yes,  to  be  sure,  I 
forget  that  you  are  the  daughter  of  a poor  country  curate,  with 
more  pride  in  your  head  than  money  in  your  purse.’  ‘ Neither 
do  I forget,’  said  I,  ‘ that  your  ignorance  is  equal  to  your  imperti- 
nence ; if  I am  the  daughter  of  a poor  country  curate,  I am  the 
affianced  wife  of  a rich  man,  and  as  much  elevated  by  expecta- 
tion, as  spirit,  above  you.’ 

Our  conversation  was  repeated  throughout  the  village,  and 
reached  the  ears  of  Marlowe’s  attendant,  who  instantly  developed 
the  real  motive  which  detained  him  so  long  in  the  village.  He 
wrote  to  his  uncle  an  account  of  the  whole  affair  ; the  consequence 
of  this  was  a letter  to  poor  Marlowe,  full  of  the  bitterest  re- 
proaches, charging  him,  without  delay,  to  return  home.  This 
was  like  a thunder- stroke  to  us  all;  but  there  was  no  alternative 


THE  CHILDRE^f  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


107 


between  obeying,  or  forfeiting  his  uncle’s  favor.  ‘ I fear,  my  dear 
Panny,’  cried  he,  as  he  folded  me  to  his  bosom,  a little  before  his 
departure,  ‘ it  will  be  long  ere  we  shall  meet  again  ; nay,  I also 
fear  I shall  be  obliged  to  promise  not  to  write  ; if  both  these  fears 
are  realized,  impute  not  either  absence  or  silence  to  a want  of  the 
tenderest  affection  for  you.’  He  went,  and  with  him  all  my 
happiness  ! My  mother,  shortly  after  his  departure,  was  at- 
tacked by  a nervous  fever,  which  terminated  her  days  ; my 
father,  naturally  of  weak  spirits  and  delicate  constitution,  was  so 
shocked  by  the  sudden  death  of  his  beloved  and  faithful  compan- 
ion, that  he  sunk  beneath  his  grief.  The  horrors  of  my  mind  I 
cannot  describe  ; I seemed  to  stand  alone  in  the  world,  without 
one  friendly  hand  to  prevent  my  sinking  into  the  grave,  which 
contained  the  dearest  objects  of  my  love.  I did  not  know  where 
Marlowe  lived,  and,  even  if  I had,  durst  not  venture  an  applica* 
tion,  which  might  be  the  means  of  ruining  him.  The  esteem  of 
my  neighbors  I had  forfeited  by  my  conceit;  they  paid  no  atten- 
tion but  what  common  humanity  dictated,  merely  to  prevent  my 
perishing;  and  that  they  made  me  sensibly  feel.  In  this  distress, 
I received  an  invitation  from  a school-fellow  of  mine,  who  had 
married  a rich  farmer  about  forty  miles  from  our  village,  to  take 
up  my  residence  with  her  till  I was  sufficiently  recovered  to  fix 
on  some  plan  for  subsistence.  I gladly  accepted  the  offer,  and 
after  paying  a farewell  visit  to  the  grave  of  my  regretted  parents, 
I set  off  in  the  cheapest  conveyance  I could  find  to  her  habitation, 
with  all  my  worldly  treasure  packed  in  a portmanteau. 

With  my  friend  I trusted  I should  enjoy  a calm  and  happy 
asylum  till  Marlowe  was  able  to  fulfill  his  promise,  and  allow  me 
to  reward  her  kindness  ; but  this  idea  she  soon  put  to  flight,  by 
informing  me,  as  my  health  returned,  I must  think  of  some 
method  for  supporting  myself.  I started,  as  at  the  utter  anni- 
hilation of  all  my  hopes  ; for,  vain  and  ignorant  of  the  world,  I 
imagined  Marlowe  would  never  think  of  me  if  once  disgraced  by 
servitude.  I told  her  I understood  little  of  anything  except  fancy 
work.  She  was  particularly  glad,  she  said,  to  hear  I knew  that, 
as  it  would,  in  all  probability,  gain  me  admittance  to  the  service 
of  a rich  old  lady  in  the  neighborhood,  who  had  long  been  seek- 
ing for  a person  who  could  read  agreeably  and  do  fancy  works, 
with  which  she  delighted  to  ornament  her  house.  She  was  a 
little  whimsical,  to  be  sure,  she  added,  but  well-timed  flattery 
might  turn  those  whims  to  advantage  ; and,  if  I regarded  my 
reputation,  I should  not  reject  so  respectable  a protection.  There 
was  no  alternative  ; I inquired  more  particularly  about  her,  but 
how  great  was  my  emotion,  when  I learned  she  was  the  aunt  of 
Marlowe.  My  heart  throbbed  with  exquisite  delight  at  the  idea 
of  being  in  the  same  house  with  him  ; besides,  the  service  of  his 


108 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


aunt  would  not,  I flattered  myself,  degrade  me  as  much  in  hig 
eyes  as  that  of  another  person’s;  it  was  necessary,  however,  my  ^ 
name  should  he  concealed,  and  I requested  my  friend  to  comply 
with  my  wish  in  that  respect.  She  rallied  me  about  my  pride, 
which  she  supposed  had  suggested  the  request,  but  promised  to 
comply  with  it  ; she  had  no  doubt  but  her  recommendation  would 
be  sufficient  to  procure  me  immediate  admittance,  and,  accord- 
ingly, taking  some  of  my  work  with  me,  I proceeded  to  the  hab- 
itation of  Marlowe.  It  was  an  antique  mansion,  surrounded  with 
neat-clipped  hedges,  level  lawns,  and  formal  plantations.  Two 
statues,  cast  in  the  same  mold,  and  resembling  nothing  either  in 
heaven,  earth,  or  sea,  stood  grinning  horribly  upon  the  pillars  of 
a massy  gate,  as  if  to  guard  the  entrance  from  impertinent  intru- 
sion. On  knocking,  an  old  porter  appeared.  I gave  him  my 
message,  but  he,  like  the  statues,  seemed  stationary,  and  would 
not,  I believe,  have  stirred  from  his  situation  to  deliver  an  em- 
bassy from  the  king.  He  called,  however,  to  a domestic,  who, 
happening  to  be  a little  deaf,  was  full  half  an  hour  before  he  heard 
him  ; at  last,  I was  yshered  upstairs  into  an  apartment,  from  the 
heat  of  which  one  might  have  conjectured  it  was  under  the  torrid 
zone.  Though  in  the  middle  of  July,  a heavy  hot  fire  I)urned  in 
the  grate  ; a thick  carpet,  representing  birds,  beasts,  and  flowers, 
was  spread  on  the  floor,  and  the  windows,  closely  screwed  down, 
were  heavy  with  woodwork,  and  darkened  with  dust.  The 
master  and  mistress  of  the  mansion,  like  Darby  and  Joan,  sat  in 
armchairs  on  each  side  of  the  fire  ; three  dogs,  and  as  many  cats, 
slumbered  at  their  feet.  He  was  leaning  on  a spider- table,  poring 
over  a voluminous  book,  and  she  was  stitching  a counterpane. 
Sickness  and  ill-nature  were  visible  in  each  countenance.  ‘ So  ! ^ 
said  she,  raising  a huge  pair  of  spectacles  at  my  entrance,  and 
examining  me  from  head  to  foot,  ‘you  are  come  from  Mrs. 
Wilson’s  ; why,  bless  me,  child,  you  are  quite  too  young  for  any 
business  ; pray,  what  is  your  name,  and  where  do  you  come 
from  ? ’ I was  prepared  for  these  questions,  and  told  her  the 
truth,  only  concealing  my  real  name,  and  the  place  of  my  nativ- 
ity. ‘ Well,  let  me  see  those  works  of  yours,’  cried  she.  I pro- 
duced them,  and  the  spectacles  were  again  drawn  down.  ‘ Why, 
they  are  neat  enough,  to  be  sure,’  said  she,  ‘but  the  design  is 
bad — very  bad,  indeed  ; there  is  taste,  there  is  execution  ! ’ direct- 
ing me  to  some  pictures,  in  heavy  gilt  frames,  hung  round  the 
room.  I told  her,  with  sincerity,  ‘ I had  never  seen  anything 
like  them.’  ‘ To  be  sure,  child,’ exclaimed  she,  pleased  at  what 
she  considered  admiration  in  me,  ‘ it  is  running  a great  risk  to 
take  you  ; but  if  you  think  you  can  conform  to  the  regulations  of 
my  house,  I will,  from  compassion,  and  as  you  are  recommended 
by  Mrs.  Wilson,  venture  to  engage  you  ; but,  remember,  I must 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


lOd 

have  no  gad-about,  no  fly-flapper,  no  chatterer,  in  my  family. 
You  must  be  decent  in  your  dress  and  carriage,  discreet  in  youi 
words,  industrious  at  your  work,  and  satisfied  with  the  indul- 
gence of  going  to  church  on  a Sunday.’  I saw  I was  about  enter- 
ing upon  a painful  servitude  ; but  the  idea  of  its  being  sweetened 
by  the  sympathy  of  Marlowe  a little  reconciled  me  to  it. 

On  promising  all  she  desired,  everything  was  settled  for  my 
admission  into  her  family,  and  she  took  care  I should  perform  the 
promises  I made  her.  I shall  not  recapitulate  the  various  trials  I 
underwent  from  her  austerity  and  peevishness  ; sufiice  it  to  say, 
my  patience,  as  well  as  taste,  underwent  a perfect  martyrdom. 
I was  continually  seated  at  a frame,  working  pictures  of  her  own 
invention,  which  were  everything  that  was  hideous  in  nature. 
I was  never  allowed  to  go  out,  except  on  a Sunday  to  church,  or 
on  a chance  evening  when  it  was  to  dark  to  distinguish  colors. 

Marlowe  was  absent  on  my  entering  the  family,  nor  durst  I 
ask  when  he  was  expected.  My  health  and  spirits  gradually 
declined  from  my  close  confinement.  When  allowed,  as  I have 
before  said,  of  a chance  time  to  go  out,  instead  of  enjoying  the 
fresh  air,  I have  sat  down  to  weep  over  scenes  of  former  happiness. 
I dined  constantly  with  the  old  housekeeper.  She  informed  me, 
one  day,  that  Mr.  Marlowe,  her  master’s  young  heir,  who  had 
been  absent  some  time  on  a visit,  was  expected  home  on  the  ensu- 
ing day.  Fortunately,  the  good  dame  was  too  busily  employed 
to  notice  my  agitation.  I retired  as  soon  as  possible  from  the 
table,  in  a state  of  indescribable  pleasure.  Never  shall  I forget  my 
emotions,  when  I heard  the  trampling  of  his  horse’s  feet,  and  sa^ 
him  enter  the  house  I Vainly  I endeavored  to  resume  my  work  ; 
my  hands  trembled,  and  I sunk  back  on  my  chair,  to  indulge  the 
delightful  idea  of  an  interview  with  him,  which  I believed  to  be 
inevitable.  My  severe  task-mistress  soon  awakened  me  from  my 
delightful  dream  ; she  came  to  tell  me  : ‘ I must  confine  myself 
to  my  own  and  the  housekeeper’s  room,  which,  to  a virtuous,  dis- 
creet maiden,  such  as  I appeared  to  be,  she  supposed  would  be  no 
hardship,  while  her  nephew,  who  was  a young,  perhaps  rather  a 
wild  young  man,  remained  in  the  house  ; when  he  again  left  it, 
which  would  soon  be  the  case,  I should  regain  my  liberty.’  My 
heart  sunk  within  me  at  her  words,  but,  when  the  first  shock 
was  over,  I consoled  myself  by  thinking  I should  be  able  to  elude 
her  vigilance.  I was,  however,  mistaken  ; she  and  the  house- 
keeper were  perfect  Arguses.  To  be  in  the  same  house  with 
Marlowe,  yet  without  his  knowing  it,  drove  me  almost  distracted. 

I at  last  thought  of  an  expedient,  which,  I hoped,  would  effect 
the  discovery  I wanted.  I had  just  finished  a piece  of  work, 
which  my  mistress  was  delighted  with.  It  was  an  enormous 
flower-basket,  mounted  on  the  back  of  a cat,  which  held  beneath 


110 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


its  paw  a trembling*  mouse.  The  raptures  the  old  lady  expressed 
at  seeing  her  own  design  so  ably  executed  encouraged  me  to  ask 
permission  to  embroider  a picture  of  my  own  designing,  for 
which  I had  the  silks  lying  by  me.  She  complied,  and  I set 
about  it  with  alacrity.  I copied  my  face  and  figure  as  exactly  as 
I could,  and,  in  mourning  drapery  and  a pensive  attitude,  placed 
the  little  image  by  a rustic  grave  in  the  churchyard  of  my  native 
village,  at  the  head  of  which,  half  embowered  in  trees,  appeared 
the  lovely  cottage  of  my  departed  parents.  These  well-known 
objects,  I thought,  would  revive,  if  indeed  she  was  absent  from  it^ 
the  idea  of  poor  Fanny  in  the  mind  of  Marlowe.  I presented  the 
picture  to  my  mistress,  who  was  pleased  with  the  present,  and 
promised  to  have  it  framed.  The  next  day  while  I sat  at  dinner,, 
the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  Marlowe  entered  the  room.  I 
thought  I should  have  fainted.  My  companion  dropped  her 
knife  and  fork  with  great  precipitation,  and  Marlowe  told  her  he 
was  very  ill,  and  wanted  a cordial  from  her.  She  rose  with  a 
dissatisfied  air,  to  comply  with  his  request.  He,  taking  this  op- 
portunity of  approaching  a little  nearer,  darted  a glance  of  pity 
and  tenderness,  and  softly  whispered — ‘ To-night,  at  eleven  o’clock^ 
meet  me  in  the  front  parlor.’ 

You  may  conceive  how  tardily  the  hours  passed  till  the  ap- 
pointed time  came,  when,  stealing  to  the  parlor,  I found  Marlowe 
expecting  me.  He  folded  me  to  his  heart,  and  his  tears  mingled 
with  mine,  as  I related  my  melancholy  tale.  ‘ You  are  now,  my 
Fanny  ! ’ he  cried,  ‘ entirely  mine  ; deprived  of  the  protection  of 
your  tender  parents  I shall  endeavor  to  fulfill  the  sacred  trust  they 
reposed  in  my  honor,  by  securing  mine  to  you,  as  far  as  lies  in  my 
power.  I was  not  mistaken,’  continued  he,  ‘in  the  idea  I had 
formed  of  the  treatment  I should  receive  from  my  flinty-hearted 
relations  on  leaving  you.  Had  I not  promised  to  drop  all  cor- 
respondence with  you,  I must  have  relinquished  all  hopes  of  their 
favor.  Bitter,  indeed,’  cried  he,  while  a tear  started  in  his  eye, 
‘is  the  bread  of  dependence.  Ill  could  my  soul  submit  to  the 
indignities  I received  ; but  I consoled  myself  throughout  them,, 
by  the  idea  of  future  happiness  with  my  Fanny.  Had  I known 
her  situation  (which,  indeed,  it  was  impossible  I should,  as  my 
uncle’s  spy  attended  me  wherever  I went),  no  dictate  of  prudence 
would  have  prevented  my  flying  to  her  aid  ! ’ ‘ Thank  Heaven^ 

then,  you  were  ignorant  of  it,’  said  I.  ‘ My  aunt,’  he  proceeded^ 
‘ showed  me  your  work,  lavishing  the  highest  encomiums  on  it. 
I glanced  my  eye  carelessly  upon  it,  but,  in  a moment,  how  was 
that  careless  eye  attracted  by  the  well-known  objects  presented  to 
it  ! this,  I said  to  my  heart,  can  only  be  Fanny’s  work.  I tried  to 
discover  from  my  aunt  whether  my  conjectures  were  wrong,  but 
without  success.  When  I retired  to  dress,  I asked  my  servant  if 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Ill 


there  had  been  any  addition  to  the  family  during  my  absence  ; 
he  said  a young  woman  was  hired  to  do  fine  works,  but  she  never 
appeared  among  the  servants.’ 

Marlowe  proceeded  to  say,  ‘ he  could  not  bear  I should  longer 
continue  in  servitude,  and  that  without  delay  he  was  resolved  to 
unite  his  fate  to  mine.  ’ I opposed  this  resolution  a little ; but  soon, 
too  self-interested,  I fear,  acquiesced  in  it.  It  was  agreed  I should 
inform  his  aunt  my  health  would  no  longer  permit  my  continuing 
in  her  family,  and  that  I should  retire  to  a village  six  miles  otf, 
where  Marlowe  undertook  to  bring  a young  clergyman,  a particular 
friend  of  his,  to  perform  the  ceremony.  Our  plan,  as  settled,  was 
carried  into  execution,  and  I became  the  wife  of  Marlowe.  I was 
now,  you  will  suppose,  elevated  to  the  pinnacle  of  happiness ; I 
was  so,  indeed,  but  my  own  folly  precipitated  me  from  it.  The; 
secrecy  I was  compelled  to  observe  mortified  me  exceedingly,  as 
I panted  to  emerge  from  the  invidious  cloud  which  had  so  long 
concealed  my  beauty  and  accomplishments  from  a world  that  I 
was  confident,  if  seen,  would  pay  them  the  homage  they  merited. 
The  people  with  whom  I lodged  had  been  obliged  by  Marlowe,  and, 
therefore,  from  interest  and  gratitude,  obeyed  the  injunction  he* 
gave  them,  of  keeping  my  residence  at  their  house  a secret ; they 
believed,  or  affected  to  believe,  I was  an  orphan  committed  to  his 
care,  whom  his  uncle  would  be  displeased  to  know  he  had  taken 
under  his  protection.  Three  or  four  times  a week  I received  stolen 
visits  from  Marlowe,  when,  one  day  (after  a month  had  elapsed  in 
this  manner)  standing  at  the  parlor  window,  I saw  Mrs.  Wilson 
walking  down  the  village,  I started  back,  but  too  late  to  escape  her 
observation ; she  immediately  bolted  into  the  room  with  all  the 
eagerness  of  curiosity.  I bore  her  first  interrogatories  tolerably 
well,  but  when  she  upbraided  me  for  leaving  the  excellent  service 
she  had  procured  for  me,  for  duplicity  in  saying  I was  going  to  an 
other,  and  for  my  indiscretion  in  respect  to  Marlowe,  I lost  all  com- 
mand of  my  temper,  and,  remembering  the  inhumanity  with  wliicli 
she  had  forced  me  into  servitude,  I resolved  to  mortify  her  con. 
pletely,  by  assuming  all  the  airs  I had  heretofore  so  ridiculously? 
aspired  to.  Lolling  in  my  chair,  with  an  air  of  the  most  careless 
indifference,  I bid  her  no  longer  petrify  me  With  her  discourse. 
This  raised  all  the  violence  of  rage,  and  she  plainly  told  me,  ‘ fron:i 
my  conduct  with  Marlowe,  I was  unworthy  her  notice.’  ‘ There- 
fore,’ cried  I,  forgetting  every  dictate  of  prudence,  ‘ his  wife  will 
neither  desire  nor  receive  it  in  future.’  ‘ His  wife ! ’ she  repeated, 
with  a look  of  scorn  and  incredulity.  I produced  the  certificate  of 
my  marriage;  thus,  from  an  impulse  of  vanity  and  resentment, 
putting  myself  in  the  power  of  a woman,  a stranger  to  every  libera] 
feeling,  and  whose  mind  was  inflamed  with  envy  toward  me. 
The  hint  I forced  myself  at  parting  to  give  her,  to  keep  the  affaif 


112 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


secret,  only  determined  her  more  strongly  to  reveal  it.  The  day 
after  her  visit,  Marlowe  entered  my  apartment — pale,  agitated,  and 
breathless,  he  sunk  into  a chair.  A pang,  like  conscious  guilt, 
smote  my  heart,  and  I trembled  as  I approached  him.  He  repulsed 
me  when  I attempted  to  touch  his  hand.  ‘ Cruel,  inconsiderate 
woman!’  he  said,  ‘to  what  dreadful  lengths  has  your  vanity 
hurried  you ; it  has  drawn  destruction  upon  your  own  head  as  well 
as  mine ! ’ Shame  and  remorse  tied  my  tongue ; had  I spoken, 
indeed,  I could  not  have  vindicated  myself,  and  I turned  aside  and 
wept.  Marlowe,  mild,  tender,  and  adoring,  could  not  long  retain 
resentment ; he  started  from  his  chair,  and  clasped  me  to  his  bosom. 
‘ O Fanny!’  he  cried,  ‘ though  you  have  ruined  me,  you  are  still 
dear  as  ever  to  me.’ 

This  tenderness  affected  me  even  more  than  reproaches,  and 
tears  and  sighs  declared  my  penitence.  His  expectations  relative 
to  his  uncle  were  finally  destroyed,  on  being  informed  of  our  mar- 
riage, which  Mrs.  Wilson  lost  no  time  in  telling  him.  He  burned 
his  will,  and  immediately  made  another  in  favor  of  a distant  re- 
lation. On  hearing  this  intelligence,  I was  almost  distracted ; I 
flung  myself  at  my  husband’s  feet,  implored  his  pardon,  yet  de- 
clared I could  never  forgive  myself.  He  grew  more  composed  up- 
on the  increase  of  my  agitation,  as  if  purposely  to  soothe  my  spirits, 
assuring  me,  that,  though  his  uncle’s  favor  was  lost,  he  had  other 
friends  on  whom  he  greatly  depended.  We  set  off  for  London, 
and  found  his  dependence  was  not  ill-placed ; for,  soon  after  his 
arrival,  he  obtained  a place  of  considerable  emolument  in  one  of 
the  public  offices.  My  husband  delighted  in  gratifying  me,  though 
I was  often  both  extravagant  and  whimsical,  and  almost  ever  on 
the  wing  for  admiration  and  amusement.  I was  reckoned  a pretty 
woman,  and  received  with  rapture  the  nonsense  and  adulation  ad- 
dressed to  me.  I became  acquainted  with  a young  widow,  who 
concealed  a depraved  heart  under  a specious  appearance  of  inno- 
cence and  virtue,  and  by  aiding  the  vices  of  others,  procured  the 
means  of  gratifying  her  own ; yet  so  secret  were  all  her  transactions, 
that  calumny  had  not  yet  attacked  her,  and  her  house  was  the 
rendezvous  of  the  most  fashionable  people.  My  husband,  who  did 
not  dislike  her  manner,  encouraged  our  intimacy,  and  at  her  parties 
1 was  noticed  by  a young  nobleman,  them  at  the  head  of  the  ton. 
He  declared  I was  one  of  the  most  charming  objects  he  had  ever 
Ibeheld,  and,  for  such  a declaration,  I thought  him  the  most  polite 
1 had  ever  known.  As  Lord  T.  condescended  to  wear  my  chains, 
I must  certainly,  I thought,  become  quite  the  rage.  My  transports, 
however,  were  a little  checked  by  the  grave  remonstrances  of  my 
husband,  who  assured  me  Lord  T.  was  a famous,  or  rather  an  in- 
famous libertine ; and  that,  if  I did  not  avoid  his  lordship’s  partic- 
ular attentions,  he  must  insist  on  my  relinquishing  the  widow’s 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


ns 

society.  This  I thought  cruel,  hut  I saw  him  resolute,  and 
promised  to  act  as  he  desired — a promise  I never  adhered  to,  except 
when  he  was  present.  I was  now  in  a situation  to  promise  an  in- 
crease of  family,  and  Marlowe  wished  me  to  nurse  the  child.  The 
tenderness  of  my  heart  seconding  his  wish,  I resolved  on  obeying 
it;  but  when  the  widow  heard  my  intention  she  laughed  at  it,  and 
said  it  was  absolutely  ridiculous,  for  the  sake  of  a squalling  brat, 
to  give  up  all  the  pleasures  of  life ; besides,  it  would  be  much  better 
taken  care  of  in  some  of  the  villages  about  London.  I denied  this ; 
still,  however,  she  dwelt  on  the  sacrifices  I must  make,  the  amuse- 
ments I must  give  up,  and  at  last  completely  conquered  my  resolu- 
tion. I pretended  to  Marlowe  my  health  was  too  delicate  to  allow 
me  to  bear  such  a fatigue  and  he  immediately  sacrificed  his  own 
inclinations  to  mine.  I have  often  wondered  at  the  kind  of  infatu- 
ation with  which  he  complied  with  all  my  desires.  My  little  girl, 
almost  as  soon  as  born,  was  sent  from  me ; but,  on  being  able  to  go 
out  again,  I received  a considerable  shock,  from  hearing  my  noble 
admirer  was  gone  to  the  Continent,  owing  to  a trifling  derangement 
in  his  affairs.  The  vain  pursuits  of  pleasure  and  dissipation  were 
still  continued.  Three  years  passed  in  this  manner,  during  which  I 
had  a son,  and  my  little  girl  was  brought  home.  I have  since  often 
felt  astonished  at  the  cold  indifference  with  which  I regarded  my 
Marlowe,  and  our  lovely  babe,  on  whom  he  doated  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  tenderness,  Alas ! vanity  had  then  absorbed  my 
heart,  and  deadened  every  feeling  of  nature  and  sensibility ; it  is 
the  parent  of  self-love  and  apathy,  and  degrades  those  who  harbor 
it  below  humanity. 

Lord  T.  now  returned  from  the  Continent  ; he  swore  my  idea 
had  never  been  absent  from  his  mind,  and  that  I was  more  charm- 
ing than  ever;  while  I thought  him,  if  possible,  more  polite,  and 
engaging.  Again  my  husband  remonstrated.  Sometimes  I 
seemed  to  regard  these  remonstrances,  sometimes  protested  I 
would  not  submit  to  such  unnecessary  control.  I knew,  indeed, 
that  my  intentions  were  innocent,  and  I believed  I might  safely 
indulge  my  vanity,  without  endangering  either  my  reputation  or 
peace.  About  this  time  Marlowe  received  a summons  to  attend  a 
dying  friend  four  miles  from  London.  Our  little  girl  was  then 
in  a slight  fever,  which  had  alarmed  her  father,  and  confined  me, 
most  unwillingly,  I must  confess,  to  the  house.  Marlowe,  on  the 
point  of  departing,  pressed  me  to  his  breast  : ‘ My  heart,  my  be- 

loved Fanny  ! ’ said  he,  ‘ feels  unusually  heavy.  I trust  the  feel- 
ing is  no  presentiment  of  approaching  ill.  Oh  ! my  Fanny  ! on 
you  and  my  babe,  I rest  for  happiness — take  care  of  our  little 
cherub,  and  above  all  (his  meek  eye  encountering  mine),  take 
care  of  yourself,  that,  with  my  accustomed  rapture,  I may,  oti  my 
l^turn,  receive  you  to  my  arms.  ’ There  was  something  so  solemn. 


114 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


and  so  tender,  in  this  address,  that  my  heart  melted,  and  my  tears 
mingled  with  those  which  trickled  down  his  pale  cheeks.  For 
two  days  I attended  my  child  assiduously,  when  the  widow  made 
her  appearance.  She  assured  me  I should  injure  myself  by  such 
close  confinement,  and  that  my  cheeks  were  already  faded  by  it. 
She  mentioned  a delighful  masquerade  which  was  to  be  given 
that  night,  and  for  which  Lord  T.  had  presented  her  with  tickets 
for  me  and  herself  ; but  she  declared,  except  I would  accompany 
lier,  she  would  not  go.  I had  often  wished  to  go  to  a masquerade  ; 
I now,  however,  declined  this  opportunity  of  gratifying  my  incli- 
nation, but  so  faintly,  as  to  prompt  a renewal  of  her  solicitations, 
to  which  I at  last  yielded  ; and,  committing  my  babe  to  the  care 
of  a servant,  set  oflP  with  the  widow  to  a warehouse  to  choose 
dresses.  Lord  T.  dined  with  us,  and  we  were  all  in  the  highest 
spirits  imaginable  ; about  twelve  we  went  in  his  chariot  to  the 
Haymarket,  and  I was  absolutely  intoxicated  with  his  flattery, 
and  the  dazzling  objects  around  me.  At  five  we  quitted  this  scene 
of  gayety.  The  widow  took  a chair  ; I would  have  followed  her 
example,  but  my  Lord  absolutely  lifted  me  into  his  chariot,  and 
there  began  talking  in  a strain  which  provoked  my  contempt, 
and  excited  my  apprehensions.  I expressed  my  displeasure  in 
tears,  which  checked  his  boldness,  and  convinced  him  he  had 
some  difficulties  yet  to  overcome  ere  he  completed  his  designSo 
He  made  his  apologies  with  so  much  humility,  that  I was  soon 
appeased,  and  prevailed  on  to  accept  them.  We  arrived  at  the 
widow’s  house  in  as  much  harmony  as  we  left  it  ; the  flags  were 
wet,  and  Lord  T.  insisted  on  carrying  me  into  the  house.  At  the 
door  I observed  a man  muffled  up,  but  as  no  one  noticed  him,  I 
thought  no  more  about  it.  We  sat  down  to  supper  in  high  spirits, 
and  chatted  for  a considerable  time  about  our  past  amusements . 
His  lordship  said  : ‘ After  a little  sleep  we  should  recruit  our- 

selves by  a pleasant  jaunt  to  Richmond,  where  he  had  a charming 
villa.’  We  agreed  to  his  proposal,  and  retired  to  rest.  About 
noon  we  arose  ; and,  while  I was  dressing  myself  for  the  pro- 
jected excursion,  a letter  was  brought  in  to  me.  ‘ Good  Lord  ! 
Halcot  ! ’ exclaimed  I,  turning  to  the  widow,  ‘ if  Marlowe  is  re- 
turned, what  will  become  of  me  ? ’ ‘ Oh  ! read,  my  dear  crea- 

ture ! ’ cried  she  impatiently,  ‘ and  then  we  can  think  of  excuses.’ 
'‘I  have  the  letter  here,’  continued  Mrs.  Marlowe,  laying  her  hand 
to  her  breast,  and  drawing  it  forth  after  a short  pause,  ‘ I laid  it  to 
my  heart  to  guard  it  against  future  folly.’ 

THE  LETTER. 

The  presages  of  my  heart  were  but  too  true — we  parted  never  to  meet  again.  O 
Fanny,  beloved  of  my  soul,  how  are  you  lost  to  yourself  and  Marlowe  ! The  independ< 
ence,  splendor,  riches,  which  I gave  up  for  your  sake,  were  mean  sacrifices,  in  my  esti 
toatioQ,  to  the  felicity  I fondly  expected  to  have  enjoyed  with  you  through  life.  Yocif 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


IIS 

beauty  charmed  my  mind,  but  it  was  your  simplicity  captivated  my  heart.  I took,  as  1 
thought,  the  perfect  child  of  innocence  and  sincerity  to  my  bosom  ; resolved,  from, 
duty,  as  well  as  from  inclination,  to  shelter  you  in  that  bosom,  to  the  utmost  of  my 
power,  from  every  adverse  storm.  Whenever  you  were  indisposed,  what  agonies  did  I 
endure!  yet,  what  I then  dreaded,  could  I have  possibly  foreseen,  would  have  been, 
comparative  happiness  to  my  present  misery  ; for,  oh  1 my  Fanny,  far  preferable  would 
it  have  been  to  behold  you  in  the  arms  of  death  than  infamy. 

I returned  immediately  after  witnessing  the  last  pangs  of  my  friend— oppressed  with, 
the  awful  scene  of  death,  yet  cheering  my  spirits  by  an  anticipation  of  the  consolation 
I should  receive  from  ray  Fanny’s  sympathy.  Good  God  1 what  was  my  horror,  when 
I found  my  little  babe,  instead  of  being  restored  to  health  by  a mother’s  care,  nearly  ex- 
piring through  her  neglect ! The  angel  lay  gasping  on  her  bed,  deserted  by  the  merce- 
nary wretch  to  whose  care  she  was  consigued.  • I inquired,  and  the  fatal  truth  rushedl 
upon  my  soul ; yet,  when  the  first  tumult  of  passion  had  subsided,  I felt  that, without 
yet  stronger  proofs,  I could  not  abandon  you.  Alas  ! too  soon  did  I receive  those 
proofs.  I traced  you,  Fanny,  through  your  giddy"^ound,  till  I saw  you  borne  in  the 
arms  of  the  vile  Lord  T.  into  the  house  of  his  vile  paramour.  You  will  wonder,  per- 
haps, I did  not  tear  you  from  his  grasp.  Could  such  a procedure  have  restored  you  to 
me,  with  all  your  unsullied  innocence,  I should  not  have  hesitated ; but  that  was  im- 
possible, and  ray  eyes  then  gazed  upon  Fanny  for  the  last  time.  I returned  to  my 
motherless  babe,  and,  I am  not  ashamed  to  say,  I wept  over  it  with  all  the  agonies  of  a 
fond  and  betrayed  heart. 

Ere  I bid  an  irrevocable  adieu,  I would,  if  possible,  endeavor  to  convince  you  that 
conscience  caifnot  always  be  stifled— that  illicit  love  is  constantly  attended  by  remorse 
and  disappointment ; for  when  familiarity,  or  disease,  has  diminished  the  charms 
wh'ch  excited  it,  the  frail  fetters  of  admiration  are  broken  by  him  who  looks  only  to  an 
exterior  for  delight ; if,  indeed,  your  conscience  should  not  be  awakened  till  this  hour 
of  desertion  comes,' when  it  does  arrive,  you  may,  perhaps,  think  of  Marlowe.  Yes„ 
Fanny,  when  your  cheeks  are  faded  by  care,  when  your  wit  is  enfeebled  by  despond- 
ency, you  may  think  of  him  whose  tenderness  would  have  outlived  both  time  and 
change,  and  supported  you,  without  abatement,  through  every  stage  of  lif5. 

To  stop  short  in  the  career  of  vice  is,  they  say,  the  noblest  effort  of  virtue.  May 
such  an  effort  be  yours  ; and  may  you  yet  give  joy  to  the  angels  of  heaven,  who,  we 
are  taught  to  believe,  rejoice  over  them  that  truly  repent ! That  want  should  strew  no 
thorns  in  the  path  of  penitence,  all  that  I could  take  from  my  babe  I have  assigned  to 
you.  Oh  ! my  dear  culprit,  remember  the  precepts  of  your  early  youth— of  those  who> 
sleeping  in  the  dust,  are  spared  the  bitter  tear  of  anguish,  such  as  I now  shed— and,  ere 
too  late,  expiate  your  errors.  In  the  solitude  to  which  I am  hastening,  I shall  con- 
tinually pray  for  you  ; and  when  my  child  raises  its  spotless  hands  to  Heaven,  it  shall 
implore  its  mercy  for  erring  mortals;  yet,  think  not  it  shall  ever  hear  your  story* 
Oh  1 never  shall  the  blush  of  shame,  for  the  frailties  of  one  so  dear,  tinge  its  ingenuous 
countenance.  May  the  sincerity  of  your  repentance  restore  that  peace  and  brightness 
to  your  life,  which,  at  present,  I think  you  must  have  forfeited,  and  support  you  with 
fortitude  through  its  closing  period  t As  a friend,  once  dear,  you  will  ever  exist  in  the 
memory  of 

Marlowe. 

As  I concluded  the  letter,  my  spirits,  which  had  been  g*radually 
receding,  entirely  forsook  me,  and  I fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 
Mrs.  Halcot  and  Lord  T.  took  this  opportunity  of  gratifying  their 
curiosity  by  perusing  the  letter,  and  when  I recovered,  I found 
myself  supported  between  them.  ‘ You  see,  my  dear  angel,’  cried 
Lord  T.,  ‘ your  cruel  husband  has  entirely  abandoned  you  ; but 
grieve  not,  for  in  my  arms  you  shall  find  a kinder  asylum  than 
he  has  ever  afforded  you.’  ‘ True,’ said  Mrs.  Halcot  ; ‘formypart^ 
I think  she  has  reason  to  rejoice  at  his  desertion.’ 

I shall  not  attempt  to  repeat  all  I had  said  to  them  in  the  height 
of  my  distraction.  Suffice  it  to  say,  I reproached  them  both  as  the 


116 


THE  CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY, 


authors  of  my  shame  and  misery  ; and,  while  I spurned  Lord  T. 
indignantly  from  my  feet,  accused  Mns.  Halcot  of  possessing 
neither  delicacy  nor  feeling.  Alas  ! accusation  or  reproach  could 
not  lighten  the  weight  on  my  heart — I felt  a dreadful  conscious* 
ness  of  having  occasioned  my  own  misery.  I seemed  as  if  awak- 
ing from  a disordered  dream,  which  had  confused  my  senses  ; 
and  the  more  clearly  ray  perception  of  what  was  right  returned, 
the  more  bitterly  I lamented  my  deviation  from  it.  To  be  rein- 
»tated  in  the  esteem  and  affection  of  my  husband  was  all  of  felic- 
ity I could  desire  to  possess.  Full  of  the  idea  of  being  able  to  ef- 
fect a reconcilliation,  I started  up  ; but,  ere  I reached  the  door, 
sunk  itito  an  agony  of  tears  ; recollecting  that  ere  this  he  was 
probably  far  distant  from  me.  My  base  companions  tried  to  as- 
suage my  grief,  and  make  me  in  reality  the  wretch  poor  Marlowe 
supposed  me  to  be.  I heard  them  in  silent  contempt,  unable  to 
move,  till  a servant  informed  me  a gentleman  below  stairs  desired 
to  see  me.  The  idea  of  a relenting  husband  instantly  occurred, 
and  I flew  down  ; but  how  great  was  my  disappointmelit  only  to 
see  a particular  friend  of  his  ! Our  meeting  was  painful  in  the  ex- 
treme. I asked  him  if  he  knew  anything  of  Marlowe,  and  he  sol- 
emnly assured  me  he  did  not.  When  my  confusion  and  distress 
had  a little  subsided,  he  informed  me  that  in  the  morning  he  had 
received  a letter  from  him,  with  an  account  of  our  separatfon,  and 
the  fatal  cause  of  it.  The  letter  contained  a deed  of  settlement 
on  me  of  a small  paternal  estate,  and  a bill  of  fifty  pounds,  which 
Marlowe  requested  his  friend  to  present  himself  to  me.  He  also 
added  my  clothes  were  sent  to  his  house,  as  our  lodgings  had  been 
discharged.  I did  not  find  it  difficult  to  convince  this  gentleman 
of  my  innocence,  and,  putting  myself  under  his  protection,  was 
immediately  conveyed  to  lodgings  in  a retired  part  of  the  town. 
Here  he  consoled  me  with  assurances  of  using  every  effort  to  dis- 
cover the  residence  of  my  husband.  All,  alas  ! proved  unsuc- 
cessful ; and  my  health  gradually  declined.  As  time  wore  away, 
my  hope  yet  left  still  undiminished  my  desire  of  seeing  him. 
Change  of  air  was  at  last  deemed  requisite  to  preserve  my  exist- 
ence, and  I went  to  Bristol.  I had  the  good  fortune  to  lodge  in 
the  house  with  an  elderly  Irish  lady,  whose  sweet  and  benevolent 
manner  soon  gained  my  warmest  esteem,  and  tempted  me  to 
divulge  my  melancholy  tale,  where  so  certain  of  obtaining  pity. 
She  had  also  suffered  severely  from  the  pressure  of  sorrow  ; but 
hers,  as  it  proceeded  not  from  imprudence,  but  the  common  vi- 
cissitudes of  life,  was  borne  without  that  degree  of  anguish  mine 
occasioned.  As  the  period  approached  for  her  return  to  her  na- 
tive country,  I felt  the  deepest  regret  at  the  prospect  of  our  separa- 
tion, which  she,  however,  removed,  by  asking  me  to  reside  en‘ 
tirely  with  her.  Eight  years  had  elapsed  since  the  loss  of  my 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


IIT 


husband,  and  no  latent  hope  of  his  return  remained  in  my  heart 
sufficiently  strong  to  tempt  me  to  forego  the  advantages  of  such 
society.  Ere  I departed,  however,  I wrote  to  several  of  his  friends, 
informing  them  of  the  step  I intended  taking,  and,  if  any  tidings 
of  Marlowe  occurred,  where  I was  to  be  found.  Five  years  I 
passed  with  my  valuable  friend  in  retirement,  and  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  thinking  I contributed  to  the  ease  of  her  last  moments. 
This  cottage,  with  a few  acres  adjoining  it,  and  four  hundred 
pounds,  was  all  her  wealth,  and  to  me  she  bequeathed  it,  having 
no  relations  whose  wants  gave  them  any  claim  upon  her. 

The  events  I have  just  related  will  1 hope  strengthen  the  moral 
so  many  wish  to  impress  upon  the  minds  of  youth,  namely — that 
without  a strict  adherence  to  propriety,  there  can  be  no  per- 
manent pleasure  ; and  that  it  is  the  actions  of  early  life  which 
must  give  to  old  age  either  happiness  and  comfort,  or  sorrow  and 
remorse.  Had  I attended  to  the  admonitions  of  wisdom  and 
experience,  I should  have  checked  my  wanderings  from  prudence, 
and  preserved  my  happiness  from  being  sacrificed  at  the  shrine  of 
vanity  ; then,  instead  of  being  a solitary  in  the  world,  I might 
have  had  my  little  fireside  enlivened  by  the  partner  of  my  heart,, 
and,  perhaps,  my  children’s  children  sporting  around  ; but  suffer- 
ing is  the  proper  tax  we  pay  for  folly  ; the  frailty  of  human 
nature,  the  prevalence  of  example,  the  allurements  of  the  world, 
are  mentioned  by  many  as  extenuations  for  misconduct.  Though 
virtue,  say  they,  is  willing,  she  is  often  too  weak  to  resist  the 
wishes  they  excite.  Mistaken  idea  ! and  blessed  is  that  virtue 
which, opposing,  ends  them.  With  every  temptation  we  have  the 
means  of  escape  ; and  woe  be  to  us  if  we  neglect  those  means,  or 
hesitate  to  disentangle  ourselves  from  the  snare  which  vice  or 
folly  may  have  spread  around  us.  Sorrow  and  disappointment 
are  incident  to  mortal it;^\  and  when  not  occasioned  by  any  con- 
scious imprudence,  should  be  considered  as  temporary  trials  from 
Heaven  to  improve  and  correct  us,  and  be  cheerfully  borne. 

A sigh  stole  from  Oscar  as  she  spoke,  and  a tear  trickled  down 
the  soft  cheek  of  Adela.  ‘I  have,’  continued  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
‘ given  you,  like  an  old  woman,  a tedious  tale  ; but  that  tedious- 
ness, with  every  other  imperfection  I have  acknowledged,  I rest 
upon  your  friendship  and  candor  to  excuse.  ’ 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Denied  her  sight,  he  often  crept 
Beneath  the  hawthorn’s  shade ; 

To  mark  the  spot  in  which  she  wept — 

In  which  she  wept  and  prayed.— Mallet. 

The  night  was  waning  fast,  and  Adela  rose  to  depart  as  her 
friend  concluded  her  story  ; yet  it  required  an  effort  of  resolution 


118 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


to  retire.  Mrs.  Marlowe,  however,  was  too  well  convinced  of  the 
expediency  and  propriety  of  this  to  press  her  longer  stay,  though , 
the  eyes  of  Oscar,  suddenly  turned  to  her,  seemed  to  entreat  she 
would  do  so.  The  night  was  dark  and  wet,  which  prevented  Mrs. 
Marlowe  from  accompanying  Adela  to  the  carriage.  Not  so 
Oscar;  he  took  the  umbrella  from  the  servant,  who  held  it  for  his 
mistress,  and  bid  him  hasten  on  to  have  the  carriage-door  opened. 

^ Oscar, ’ cried  Mrs.  Marlowe,  extremely  unwilling  to  allow  even 
this  short  tete-a-tete,  ‘ Mrs.  Belgrave  will  dispense  with  your  gal- 
lantry, for  you  are  really  too  great  an  invalid  to  venture  out  such 
anight  as  this.’  Adela  attempted  to  dissuade  him  from  it,  but 
her  voice  was  so  low  and  faltering  as  scarcely  to  be  articulate. 
Oscar  gently  seized  her  hand,  and  pulled  it  under  his  arm  ; he 
felt  it  tremble  as  he  did  so.  The  touch  became  contagious  ; an 
universal  tremor  affected  his  frame,  and  never,  perhaps,  had  he 
and  Adela  experienced  a moment  of  greater  unhappiness.  Adela 
at  last  found  herself  obliged  to  speak,  conscious  that  her  silence 
must  appear  particular,  and  said,  she  feared  he  would  be  injured 
by  his  attentions  to  her.  More  fatally  injured  than  he  already 
was,  he  might  have  replied,  he  could  not  be  ; but  he  checked  the 
words  ready  to  burst  from  his  lips,  and  only  answered  that  he 
would  be  unfit  fora  soldier,  if  he  could  not  endure  the  inclemency 
of  the  wintry  blast.  The  light  from  the  globes  of  the  carriage 
gave  him  a view  of  her  pale  lovely  cheeks,  and  he  saw  she  was 
weeping.  Confused  at  the  idea  of  betraying  her  distress,  she 
averted  her  head,  and  hastily  ascended  the  steps  ; yet,  for  a 
moment,  her  trembling  hand  rested  upon  Oscar’s  as  if,  in  this 
manner,  she  would  have  given  the  adieu  she  had  not  the  power 
of  pronouncing.  Lost  in  agony,  he  remained,  like  a statue,  on 
the  spot  where  she  had  left  him,  till  roused  by  the  friendly  voice 
of  Mrs.  Marlowe,  who,  alarmed  at  his  long  absence,  came  to  seek 
him.  Soothed  by  her  kind  solicitude,  he  directly  returned  with 
her  to  the  house,  where  his  indignation  against  the  perfidious 
Belgrave  again  broke  forth.  He  execrated  him  not  only  as  the 
•destroyer  of  his  peace,  but  a peace  infinitely  more  precious  than 
Ills  own — that  of  the  charming  Adela. 

Mrs.  Marlowe  essayed  every  art  of  consolation,  and,  by  sym- 
pathy and  mildness,  at  last  subdued  the  violence  of  his  feel- 
ings ; she  acknowledged  the  loss  he  sustained  in  being  deprived  of 
Adela  ; but,  since  irrevocable,  both  virtue  and  reason  required 
him  to  struggle  against  his  grief,  and  conceal  it.  By  their  sacred 
dictates,  she  entreated  him  to  avoid  seeing  Adela.  He  felt  she 
was  right  in  the  entreaty,  and  solemnly  promised  to  comply  with 
it  ; her  friendship  was  balm  to  his  wounded  heart,  and  her  society 
file  only  pleasure  he  was  capable  of  enjoying.  Whenever  ha 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  lit 

could  absent  himself  from  quarters  he  retired  to  her,  and  fre- 
quently spent  three  or  four  days  at  a time  in  her  cottage.  By 
discontinuing  his  visits  in  the  gay  neighborhood  of  Woodlawn, 
he  avoided  all  opportunities  of  seeing  Adela,  yet  often,  on  a clear 
frosty  night,  did  he  steal  from  the  fireside  of  Mrs.  Marlowe  to  the 
beloved  and  beautiful  haunts  about  the  lake,  where  he  and  Adela 
passed  so  many  happy  hours  together.  Here  he  indulged  in  all 
the  luxury  of  woe  ; and  such  are  the  pleasures  of  virtuous  melan- 
choly, that  Oscar  would  not  have  resigned  them  for  any  of  the 
commonplace  enjoyments  of  life. 

Often  did  he  wander  to  the  grove  from  whence  he  had  a view 
of  Adela’s  chamber,  and  if  a lucky  chance  gave  him  a glimpse  of 
her,  as  she  passed  through  it,  a sudden  ecstasy  would  pervade  his 
bosom  ; he  would  pray  for  hsr  felicity,  and  return  to  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  as  if  his  heart  was  lightened  of  an  oppressive  weight. 
That  tender  friend  flattered  herself,  from  youth  and  the  natural 
gayety  of  his  disposition,  his  attachment,  no  longer  fed  by  hope, 
would  gradually  decline  ; but  she  was  mistaken — the  bloom  of  his 
youth  was  faded,  and  his  gayety  converted  into  deep  despondency. 
Had  he  never  been  undeceived  with  regard  to  the  general  and 
Adela,  pride,  no  doubt,  would  quickly  have  lessened  the  poign- 
ancy of  his  feelings  ; but  when  he  reflected  on  the  generous  inten- 
tions of  the  one,  on  the  sincere  affection  of  the  other,  and  the  su- 
preme happiness  he  might  have  enjoyed,  he  lost  all  fortitude. 
Thus,  by  perpetually  brooding  over  the  blessings  once  within  his 
reach,  losing  all  relish  for  those  which  were  yet  attainable,  his 
sorrow,  instead  of  being  ameliorated,  was  increased  by  time.  The 
horror  and  indignation  with  which  he  beheld  Belgrave,  after  the 
■first  knowledge  of  his  baseness,  could  scarcely  be  restrained. 
Though  painful,  he  was  pleased  the  effort  had  proved  a success- 
ful  one,  as,  exclusive  of  his  sacred  promise  to  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
delicacy  on  Adela’s  account  induced  him  to  bear  his  wrongs  in 
silence.  He  could  not,  however,  be  so  great  a hypocrite  as  to  pro- 
cess any  longer  esteem  or  respect  for  the  colonel,  and  when  they 
met,  it  was  with  cold  politeness  on  both  sides. 

The  unfortunate  Adela  pined  in  secret.  Her  interview  with 
Oscar  had  destroyed  the  small  remainder  of  her  peace.  His  pale 
and  emaciated  figure  haunted  her  imagination  ; in  vain,  by  dwell- 
ing on  his  unkind  letter,  did  she  endeavor  to  lessen  her  tender- 
ness. She  felt  the  emotion  of  pity  stronger  than  that  of  resent- 
ment, and  that  the  friendship  of  Oscar  would  have  been  sweeter 
to  her  soul  than  the  love  or  attention  of  any  other  object.  By 
obeying  the  impulse  of  passion,  she  feared  she  had  doomed  her 
self  to  wretchedness.  Belgrave  was  a man  whom,  upon  mature 
deliberation,  she  never  could  have  chosen.  The  softness  of  h?5 


120 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


manners  gradually  vanished  when  the  purpose  for  which  they 
had  been  assumed  was  completed.  Unfeeling  and  depraved,  the 
virtues  of  Adela  could  excite  no  esteem  in  his  bosom,  and  the 
love  (if  it  can  merit  that  appellation)  which  he  felt  for  her,  quickly 
subsided  after  their  marriage  ; but  as  the  general  retained  the 
greatest  part  of  his  fortune  in  his  own  power,  he  continued  tolera- 
bly guarded  in  his  conduct.  A slave,  however,  to  the  most  vio- 
lent passions,  he  was  often  unable  to  control  them  ; and,  forget- 
ful of  all  prudential  motives,  delighted  at  those  times  in  mortify- 
ing Adela  by  sly  sarcasms  on  her  attachment  for  Oscar.  Though 
deeply  wounded,  she  never  complained  ; she  had  partly  forged 
her  chains,  and  resolved  to  bear  them  without  repining.  Tranquil 
ill  appearance,  the  poor  general,  who  was  not  penetrating,  thought 
his  darling  perfectly  happy.  Such,  however,  was  not  the  opinion 
of  those  who  visited  at  Woodlawn.  The  rose  of  health  no  longer 
spread  its  beautiful  tints  on  the  cheek  of  Adela,  nor  were  her  eyes 
irradiated  by  vivacity. 

The  colonel  never  went  to  Enniskillen  except  about  military 
business,  but  he  made  frequent  excursions  to  the  metropolis  and 
o'l;her  parts  of  the  kingdom  in  pursuit  of  pleasure.  Adela  felt 
relieved  by  his  absence  ; and  the  general,  satisfied  at  his  not  at- 
tempting to  take  her  along  with  him,  never  murmured  at  it.  The 
period  now  arrived  for*the  departure  of  the  regiment.  Adela  had 
not  seen  Oscar  since  the  interview  at  Mrs.  Marlowe’s.  She  de- 
elined  going  to  the  reviews  which  preceded  the  change  of  garri- 
son, and  sincerely  hoped  no  chance  would  again  throw  him  in 
her  way.  Oscar  sickened  at  the  idea  of  quitting  the  country  with- 
out seeing  her.  He  knew  she  was  not  to  accompany  the  colonel. 
The  officers  were  going  to  pay  a farewell  visit  to  Woodlawn,  and 
he  could  not  resist  being  of  the  party.  They  were  shown  into  the 
drawing-room  where  Adela  and  the  general  sat.  She  was  startled 
at  the  appearance  of  Oscar,  but  though  a blush  tinged  her  pale 
face,  she  soon  recovered  her  composure,  and  entered  into  conver- 
sation. The  general  pressed  them  to  stay  to  dinner,. but  they  had 
many  visits  to  pay  and  begged  to  be  excused.  ‘ My  dear  Fitzalan,  ’ 
said  the  general,  who  had  long  dropped  his  displeasure,  ‘ I wish 
you  happiness  and  success,  and  hope  I shall  soon  hear  of  your 
being  at  the  head  of  a company  ; remember,  I say  soon — for  I am 
an  old  veteran,  and  should  be  sorry  to  drop  into  the  trench  till  I 
had  heard  of  the  good  fortune  of  my  friends.  Your  father  was 
a brave  fellow,  and,  in  the  speedy  advancement  of  his  son,  should 
receive  a reward  for  his  past  services.  ’ Oscar  pressed  the  general’s 
hand  to  his  breast.  He  cast  his  tearful  eyes  on  Adela  ; she  sighed, 
and  bent  hers  to  the  ground.  ‘ Be  assured,  sir,’  he  cried,  ‘ no  grat- 
itude can  be  more  fervent  than  that  your  goodness  has  inspired  me 
with  ; no  wishes  can  be  more  sincere  than  mine  for  the  happiness 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


121 


of  the  inhabitants  of  Woodlawn.  ‘Ineffectual  wishes,’  softly 
exclaimed  Adela  ; ‘ happiness,  from  one  of  its  inhabitants  at  least, 
has,  I fear,  fled  forever.  ’ 

The  general’s  wishes  for  the  success  of  Oscar  may  be  considered 
;as  mere  words  of  course,  since  not  enforced  by  more  substantial 
proofs  of  regard  ; but,  in  reality,  soon  after  his  daughter’s  mar- 
riage, in  his  usual  blunt  manner,  he  had  mentioned  to  the  colonel 
his  giving  a thousand  or  two  to  help  the  promotion  of  Oscar. 
Belgrave,  who  could  not  bear  that  the  man  whom  he  had  injured 
should  have  a chance  of  obtaining  equal  rank  with  himself,  op- 
posed this  truly  generous  design,  by  saying,  ‘ Oscar  was  taken  under 
the  patronage  of  Lord  Cherbury,  and  that  the  general’s  bounty 
might,  therefore,  at  some  future  period,  be  better  applied  in  serving 
a person  without  his  interest.’  To  this  the  general  assented,  de- 
claring that  he  never  yet  met  with  a brave  soldier  or  his  offspring 
in  distress  without  feeling  and  answering  the  claim  they  had  upon 
his  heart. 

Oscar  obtained  a ready  promise  from  Mrs.  Marlowe  of  correspond- 
ing with  him.  He  blushed  and  faltered  as  he  besought  her  some- 
times to  acquaint  him  with  the  health  of  their  friends  at  Wood- 
lawn.  Change  of  scene  produced  no  alteration  in  him.  Still 
pining  with  regret,  and  languid  from  ill-health,  his  father  and 
sister  found  him.  The  comforts  of  sympathy  could  not  be  his, 
as  the  anguish  which  preyed  on  his  heart  he  considered  of  too  sacred 
a nature  to  divulge.  He  hoarded  up  his  grief,  like  a miser  hoard- 
ing up  his  treasure,  fearful  that  the  eye  of  suspicion  should  glance 
at  it,  as  he  pressed  his  lovely  sister  to  his  heart.  Had  he  imagined 
she  was  the  object  of  Colonel  Belgrave’s  licentious  passion,  the 
bounds  he  had  hitherto  prescribed  to  his  resentment  would  in  a 
moment  have  been  overturned,  and  he  would,  had  it  been  nec- 
essary, have  pursued  the  monster  round  the  world,  to  avenge  the 
injury  he  had  meditated,  as  well  as  the  one  he  had  committed. 

We  shall  now  bid  adieu  to  Oscar  for  the  present,  and,  drawing 
on  our  boots  of  seven  leagues,  step  after  Fitzalan  and  Amanda. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Confessed  from  yonder  slow  extinguished  clouds. 

All  ether  softening,  sober  evening  takes 
Her  wonted  station  in  the  middle  air; 

A thousand  shadows  at  her  back. — Thomson. 

Castle  Carberry,  to  which  our  travelers  were  going,  was  a 
large  Gothic  pile,  erected  in  the  rude  and  distant  period  when 
•strength  more  than  elegance  was  deemed  necessary  in  a building. 
The  depredations  of  war,  as  well  as  time,  were  discernible  on  ita 


122 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


exterior;  some  of  its  lofty  battlements  were  broken,  and  oth.^rs 
moldering  to  decay,  while  about  its  ancient  towers 

The  rar.kg:ra PS  waved  its  head. 

And  the  moss  whistied  to  the  wind. 

It  stood  upon  a rocky  eminence  overhanging  the  sea,  and  com? 
manding  a delightful  prospect  of  the  opposite  coast  of  Scotland, 
about  it  were  yet  to  be  traced  irregular  fortifications,  a moat,  ancL 
remains  of  a drawbridge,  with  a well,  long  since  dry,  which  had 
been  dug  in  the  rock  to  supply  the  inhabitants  in  time  of  siege 
with  water.  On  one  side  rose  a stupendous  hill,  covered  to  the 
very  summit  with  trees,  and  scattered  over  with  relics  of  druidical 
antiquity ; before  it  stretched  an  extensive  and  gently  swelling 
lawn,  sheltered  on  each  side  with  groves  of  intermingled  shade, 
and  refreshed  by  a clear  and  meandering  rivulet,  that  took  its  rise 
from  the  adjoining  hill,  and  murmured  over  a bed  of  pebbles. 

After  a pleasant  journey,  on  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day,  our 
travelers  arrived  at  their  destined  habitation.  An  old  man  and 
woman,  who  had  the  care  of  it,  were  apprised  of  their  coming, 
and  on  the  first  approach  of  the  carriage,  opened  the  massy  door, 
and  waited  to  receive  them ; they  reached  it  when  the  sober  gray 
of  twilight  had  clad  every  object.  Amanda  viewed  the  dark  and 
stupendous  edifice,  whose  gloom  was  now  heightened  by  the 
shadows  of  evening,  with  venerable  awe.  The  solitude,  the  silence 
which  reigned  around,  the  melancholy  murmur  of  the  waves  as 
they  dashed  against  the  foot  of  the  rocks,  all  heightened  the  sad- 
ness of  her  mind ; yet  it  was  not  quite  an  unpleasing  sadness,  for 
with  it  was  now  mingled  a degree  of  that  enthusiasm  which  plain- 
tive and  romantic  spirits  are  so  peculiarly  subject  to  feel  in  view- 
ing the  venerable  grandeur  of  an  ancient  fabric  renowned  in 
history.  As  she  entered  a spacious  hall,  curiously  wainscoted  with 
oak,  ornamented  with  coats  of  arms,  spears,  lances,  and  old  armor,, 
she  could  not  avoid  casting  a retrospective  eye  to  former  times, 
when,  perhaps,  in  this  very  hall,  bards  sung  the  exploits  of  those 
heroes,  whose  useless  arms  now  h^ing  upon  the  walls,  She  wished, 
in  the  romance  of  the  moment,  some  gray  bard  near  her,  to  tell 
the  deeds  of  other  times — of  kings  renowned  in  our  land — of  chiefs 
we  behold  no  more.  In  the  niches  in  the  hall  were  figures  of 
chieftains,  large  as  life,  and  rudely  carved  in  oak.  Their  frown- 
ing countenances  struck  a sudden  panic  upon  the  heart  of  Ellen. 
‘ Cot  pless  their  souls,’  she  said,  ‘ what  the  tefil  did  they  do  there, 
except  to  frighten  the  people  from  going  into  the  house.’ 

They  were  shown  into  a large  parlor,  furnished  in  an  old- 
fashioned  manner,  and  found  a comfortable  supper  prepared  for 
them.  Oppressed  with  fatigue,  soon  after  they  had  partaken  of  it 
they  retired  to  rest.  The  next  morning,  immediately  after  break* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


123 


fast,  Amanda,  attended  by  the  old  woman  and  Ellen,  ranged  over 
the  castle.  Its  interior  was  quite  as  Gothic  as  its  exterior;  the 
stairs  were  winding,  the  galleries  intricate,  the  apartments  numer- 
ous, and  mostly  hung  with  old  tapestry,  representing  Irish  battles 
in  which  the  chiefs  of  Castle  Carberry  were  particularly  distin- 
guished. Their  portraits,  with  those  of  their  ladies,  occupied  a 
long  gallery,  whose  arched  windows  cast  a dim  religious  light 
upon  them.  This  was  terminated  by  a small  apartment  in  the  center 
of  one  of  the  towers  that  flanked  the  building.  The  room  was  an 
octagon,  and  thus  commanded  a sea  and  land  prospect,  uniting  at 
once  the  sublime  and  beautiful  in  it.  The  furniture  was  not  only 
modern  but  elegant,  and  excited  the  particular  attention  and  in- 
quiries of  Amanda.  The  old  woman  informed  her  this  had  been 
the  dressing  room  of  the  late  Countess  of  Cherbury,  both  before 
and  after  her  marriage,  ‘ one  of  the  sweetest,  kindest  ladies,’  con- 
tinued she,  ‘ I ever  knew ; the  castle  has  beei\quite  deserted  since 
she  died — alack-a-day ! I thought  my  poor  heart  would  have  broke 
when  I heard  of  her  death.  Ah ! I remember  the  night  I heard 
the  Banshee  crying  so  pitifully.’  ‘ And  pray  what  is  that?  ’ inter- 
rupted Amanda.  ‘ Why,  a little  woman,  no  higher  than  a yard, 
who  wears  a blue  petticoat,  a red  cloak,  and  a handkerchief  round 
her  head ; and  when  the  head  of  any  family,  especially  a great 
family,  is  to  die,  she  is  always  heard,  by  some  of  the  old  followers, 
l^emoaning  herself.’  ‘ Lort  save  us ! ’ cried  Ellen,  ‘ I hope  his  lort- 
ship,  the  earl,  won’t  take  it  into  his  head  to  die  while  we  are  here, 
for  I’d  as  lief  see  one  of  the  fairies  of  Penmaenmawr,  as  such  a 
little  old  witch.’  ‘Well,  proceed,’  said  Amanda.  ‘So,  as  I was 
saying,  I heard  her  crying  dismally  one  night  in  a corner  of  the 
house.  So,  says  I to  my  husband,  Johnaten,  says  I,  I am  sure  we 
shall  hear  something  about  my  good  lord  or  lady.  And  sure 
enough  we  did  the  next  day,  and  ever  since  we  have  seen  none  of 
the  family.'  ‘ Did  you  ever  see  the  young  lord?  ’ asked  Amanda, 
with  involuntary  precipitation.  ‘ See  him!  aye,  that  I did,  when 
he  was  about  eight  years  old ; there  is  his  picture  [pointing  to  one 
which  hung  over  the  chimney] ; my  lady  had  it  done  by  a flne 
iLngiish  painter,  and  brought  it  over  with  her.  It  is  the  moral  of 
what  he  then  was.’  The  eager  eyes  of  Amanda  were  instantly 
;:urned  to  it,  and  she  traced,  or  at  least  imagined  she  did  so,  a resem- 
blance still  between  it  and  him.  The  painter  seemed  as  if  he  had 
had  the  description  of  Pity  in  his  mind  when  he  drew  the  picture; 
for  Lord  Mortimer  was  portrayed,  as  he  is  represented  in  the 
beautiful  allegory,  sheltering  a trembling  dove  in  his  bosom  from 
a ferocious  hawk.  O Mortimer  1 thought  Amanda,  thy  feeling 
nature  is  here  ably  delineated ! The  distressed,  or  the  helpless,  to 
the  utmost  of  your  power,  you  would  save  from  the  gripe  of  cruelty 
and  oppression.  Her  father  had  desired  her  to  choose  pleasant 


124 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


apartments  for  her  own  immediate  use,  and  she  accm'dingly  fixed 
on  this  and  the  room  adjoining  it,  which  had  been  Lady  Cherbury’s 
chamber.  Her  things  were  brought  hither,  and  her  books,  work^, 
and  implements  for  drawing,  deposited  in  rich  inlaid  cabinets. 
Pleased  with  the  arrangements  she  had  made,  she  brought  her 
father,  as  soon  as  he  was  at  leisure,  to  view  them.  He  was  happy 
to  find  her  spirits  somewhat  cheerful  and  composed,  and  declared  | 
in  future  he  would  call  this  Amanda’s  Tower.  Accompanied  by  | 
him,  she  ascended  to  the  battlements  of  the  castle,  and  was  delighted  ' 
with  the  extensive  and  variegated  prospect  she  beheld  from  them» 
A spacious  edifice,  at  some  distance,  embowered  in  a grove  of  ven- 
erable oaks,  attracted  her  admiration.  Her  father  told  her  that 
was  Ulster  Lodge,  a seat  belonging  to  the  Marquis  of  Koslin,  who 
was  an  Irish  as  well  as  a Scotch  Peer,  and  had  very  extensive  pos- 
sessions in  Ireland.  Fitzalan  added,  he  had  been  inquiring  of  the 
old  man  about  the  neighborhood,  and  learned  from  him  that,  at 
the  expiration  of  every  three  or  four  years,  the  marquis  usually 
came  over  to  Ulster  Lodge,  but  had  never  yet  been  accompanied 
by  the  marchioness,  or  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland,  who  was  his 
>nly  child. 

The  domestic  economy  of  Castle  Carberry  was  soon  settled,  A 
young  man  and  woman  were  hired,  as  Johnaten  and  his  wife, 
Kate,  were  considered  little  more  than  supernumeraries.  Ellea 
was  appointed  to  attend  Amanda,  and  do  whatever  plain  worfe 
was  required.  Fitzalan  felt  a pleasing  serenity  diffused  over  his 
mind,  from  the  idea  of  being  in  some  degree  independent,  and  in 
the  way  of  making  some  provision  for  his  children.  The  first 
shock  of  a separation  from  Lord  Mortimer  being  over,  the  cheer- 
fulness of  Amanda  gradually  returned,  the  visions  of  hope  again 
revived  in  her  mind,  and  she  indulged  a secret  pleasure  at  living 
in  the  house  he  had  once  occupied.  She  considered  her  father  as 
particularly  connected  with  his  family,  and  doubted  not,  from 
this  circumstance,  she  should  sometimes  hear  of  him.  She  judged 
• of  his  constancy  by  her  own,  and  believed  he  would  not  readily 
forget  her.  She  acknowledged  her  father’s  motives  for  separating 
them  were  equally  just  and  delicate  ; but  firmly  believed,  if  Lord 
Mortimer  (as  she  flattered  herself  he  would)  confessed  a partiality 
in  her  favor  to  his  father,  that,  influenced  by  tenderness  for  his 
son,  friendship  for  her  father,  and  the  knowledge  of  her  descent, 
he  would  immediately  give  up  every  idea  of  another  connection, 
and  sanction  theirs  with  his  approbation.  No  obstacle  appeared 
to  such  an  union  but  want  of  fortune,  and  that  want  she  could 
never  suppose  would  be  considered  as  one  by  the  liberal-minded 
Lord  Cherbury,  who  had  himself  an  income  sufficient  to  gratify 
even  luxurious  wishes.  Her  time  was  agreeably  diversified  by 
the  sources  of  amusements  she  drew  from  herself.  Her  father^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


125 


whose  supreme  felicity  consisted  in  contributing  to  her  pleasure, 
purchased  a delightful  harp  for  her  in  Dublin,  which  arrived  a 
few  days  after  them  at  Castle  Carberry,  and  with  its  dulcet  lays 
she  often  charmed,  not  only  his  spirit,  but  her  own,  from  every 
mortal  care.  She  loved  to  rise  early,  and  catch  the  first  beams  of 
the  sun,  as  she  wandered  over  the  dewy  lawn,  where  the  lowing 
cattle  cropped  the  flowery  herbage,  and  the  milkmaid  sung  her 
plaintive  ditty. 

With  her  father  she  took  long  walks  about  the  adjacent  coun- 
try. He  had  visited  every  scene  before,  and  now  pointed  out 
whatever  was  worthy  her  attention  : the  spots  where  the  heroes 
of  former  ages  had  fallen,  where  the  mighty  stones  of  their  fame 
were  raised,  that  the  children  of  the  North  might  hereafter  know 
the  places  where  their  fathers  fought ; that  the  hunter,  as  he 
lean^  upon  a mossy  tomb,  might  say,  here  fought  the  heroes  of 
other  years,  and  their  fame  shall  last  forever  I 

Amanda,  too,  often  rambled  by  herself,  particularly  among  the 
rocks,  where  were  several  natural  grottos,  strewed  with  shells  and 
seaweeds.  Here,  of  a mild  day,  she  loved  to  read,  and  listen  to 
the  low  murmurs  of  the  tide.  The  opposite  Scottish  hills,  among 
which  her  mother  first  drew  breath,  often  attracted  and  fixed  her 
attention,  frequently  drawing  tears  from  her  eyes,  by  awaking  in 
her  mind  the  recollection  of  that  mother’s  sufferings. 

On  a morning,  when  she  sat  at  work  in  her  apartment,  Ellen, 
who  was  considered  more  as  a friend  than  a servant,  sometimes 
sat  with  her  ; the  conversation  not  unfrequently  turned  on  nurse 
Edwin’s  cottage,  from  which  Ellen,  with  an  arch  simplicity, 
would  avert  to  Tudor  Hall,  thence  naturally  to  Lord  Mortimer, 
and  conclude  with  poor  Chip,  exclaiming  : ‘ What  a pity  true  love 
should  ever  be  crossed  1 ’ 

CHAPTER  XVL  f ^ 

Some  take  him  for  a tool 

That  knaves  do  work  with,  called  a fool  ; 

Pools  are  known  by  looking  wise, 

As  men  find  woodcocks  by  their  eyes.—HuDiBRAS. 

The  solitude  of  Castle  Carberry  was  interrupted  in  less  than  s 
fortnight  by  visits  and  invitations  from  the  neighboring  families. 
The  first  they  accepted  was  to  dinner  at  Mr.  Kilcorban’s.  He  was 
a man  of  large  fortune,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  many,  compen 
sated  for  the  want  of  polished  manners  and  a cultivated  mind  ; 
but  oth el’s,  of  a more  liberal  way  of  thinking,  could  not  possibly 
excuse  those  deficiencies,  which  were  more  apparent  from  his  pre- 
tending to  every  excellence  ; and  more  intolerable  from  his 
deeming  himself  authorized,  by  his  wealth  and  consequence,  Uf 


126 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


say  and  do  almost  whatever  he  pleased.  His  lady  was,  like  him^- 
self,  a compound  of  ignorance,  pride,  and  vanity.  Their  offspring 
was  numerous,  and  the  three  who  were  sufficiently  old  to  make 
their  appearance,  were  considered,  by  their  parents  and  them- 
selves, as  the  very  models  of  elegance  and  perfection.  The  young 
heir  had  been  sent  to  the  university  ; but,  permitted  to  be  his  own 
master,  he  had  profited  little  by  his  residence  there.  Enough, 
however,  perhaps  he  thought,  for  a man  of  fortune,  who  wanted 
not  professional  knowledge.  His  face  was  coarse,  his  person  in- 
elegant, and  his  taste  in  adorning  himself  preposterously  ridicu- 
lous. Fashion,  Hoyle,  and  the  looking-glass,  were  his  chief 
studies,  and,  by  his  family  and  self,  he  was  considered  quite  the 
thing. 

The  young  ladies  were  supposed  to  be  very  accomplished,  be- 
cause they  had  instructors  in  almost  every  branch  of  education  ; 
but,  in  reality,  they  understood  little  more  than  the  names  of 
what  they  were  attempted  to  be  taught.  Nature  had  not  been 
lavish  of  her  gifts.  Of  this,  however,  they  were  conscious,  and 
patched,  powdered,  and  painted  in  the  very  extremity  of  the 
mode.  Their  mornings  were  generally  spent  in  rolling  about  in  a 
coach  and  six  with  their  mamma,  collecting  news  and  paying 
visits  ; their  evenings  were  constantly  devoted  to  company, 
without  which  they  declared  they  could  not  exist.  They  some- 
times afiPected  languor  and  sentiment,  talked  of  friendship,  and 
professed  for  numbers,  the  most  sincere  ; yet,  to  the  very  girls 
they  pretended  to  regard,  delighted  in  exhibiting  their  finery,  if 
certain  they  could  not  purchase  the  same  and  would  feel  morti- 
fied by  seeing  it. 

Mr.  Kilcorban  had  indulged  his  family  in  a trip  to  Bath  one 
autumn,  and,  in  so  doing,  had  afforded  a never-failing  subject 
for  conversation  ; upon  every  occasion  this  delightful  excursion 
was  mentioned — the  novelties  they  saw,  the  admiration  they  ex- 
cited, the  elegant  intimacies  they  formed,  the  amazing  sum  they 
expended,  were  all  described  and  exaggerated. 

Lady  Greystock,  an  ancient  widow,  was  at  present  on  a visit  to 
them.  She  had  known  Fitzalan  in  his  youth,  and  now,  with 
pleasure,  renewed  her  intimacy  with  him  ; and  the  account  she 
gave  of  his  family  and  connections,  prepossessed  the  neighbor- 
hood in  his  favor.  She  was  a shrewd,  sensible  woman  ; the  dig- 
nity of  her  person  commanded  respect,  but  the  sarcastic  expression 
of  her  countenance  prevented  her  conciliating  esteem. 

An  old  chariot  belonging  to  the  Earl  of  Cherbury,  which  had 
been  for  years  unemployed  in  the  coach-house,  was  brought  forth, 
for  the  purpose  of  conveying  Fitzalan  and  his  daughter  on  their 
visits.  After  a good  deal  of  rubbing  and  washing,  it  was  found 
tolerably  decent,  and  they  proceeded  in  it  to  Mr.  Kilcorban ’s. 


rate  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBST« 


127 


which  was  about  two  miles  from  Castle  Carberry . A numerous 
party  was  already  assembled.  While  Amanda  was  paying  her 
compliments  to  Mi’s.  Kilcorban  and  Lady  Greystock,  a general 
whisper  relative  to  her  took  place  among  the  younger  part  of  the 
company,  who  had  formed  themselves  into  a group  quite  distant 
from  the  resi.  One  gentleman  swore  ‘ she  was  a devilish  fine 
girl ! ’ He  was  seconded  in  the  remark  by  another,  who  extolled 
her  complexion.  ‘You  are  a simpleton,’  cried  a young  lady, 
who  was  reckoned  a great  wit ; ‘ I would  engage  for  half  a crown 
to  get  as  fine  a color  in  Dublin.’  Her  companions  laughed,  and 
declared  she  only  spoke  truth  in  saying  so.  Mr.  Bryan  Kilcorban, 
who  leaned  on  her  chair,  said,  ‘ A bill  should  be  brought  into  the 
house  to  tax  such  complexions  ; for  kill  me,’ continued  he,  ‘the 
ladies  are  so  irresistible  from  nature,  it  is  quite  unconscionable  ta 
call  in  art  as  an  auxiliary.’  He  then  stalked  over  to  Amanda,, 
who  sat  by  Lady  Greystock  ; lolling  over  her  chair,  he  declared,^ 
‘ he  thought  the  tedious  hours  would  never  elapse  till  again  blessed 
with  her  presence.  Of  her,’  he  said,  ‘ it  was  sufficient  to  have  but 
one  glimpse  to  make  him  pant  for  the  second.’  A summons  U> 
dinner  relieved  her  from  this  nonsense.  Luxury  and  ostentation 
were  conspicuous  in  the  fare  and  decorations  of  the  table,  and 
Amanda  never  felt  any  hours  so  tedious  as  those  she  passed  at  it* 
When  the  ladies  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  the  Misses  Kil- 
corban and  their  companions  began  to  examine  and  admire  her 
dress.  ‘ What  a pretty  pattern  this  gown  is  worked  in  ! ’ said  one. 
‘What  a sweet,  becoming  cap  this  is, ’cried  a second.  ‘Well, 
certainly  the  English  milliners  have  a great  deal  of  taste,  my 
dear,  ’ said  Miss  Kilcorban,  whispering  to  Amanda.  ‘ I have  a 
monstrous  favor  to  ask  of  you,’  drawing  her  at  the  same  instant 
to  the  window.  ‘ I am  sure,’  said  Amanda,  ‘ any  in  my  power  ta 
grant  I shall  with  pleasure.’  ‘ Oh ! really,  then,  it  is  in  your  power. 
It  is  only  to  refuse  the  pattern  of  your  cap  to  any  girls  who  may 
fitsk  you  for  it,  and  to  give  it  me  and  my  sister.  You  cannot  con- 
ceive  how  we  dote  on  being  the  first  in  the  fashion,  one  is  so  stared 
at,  and  so  envied.  I detest  anything  when  it  becomes  common. 
You  cannot  think  how  we  are  teased  every  summer,  when  we  re 
turn  from  Dublin,  for  fashions  ; but  we  always  make  it  a point  ta 
refuse.  I must  tell  you  a delightful  trick  I played  a friend  of 
mine.  She  received  a large  present  of  the  most  beautiful  muslins 
from  India,  which  she  laid  by  till  I returned  from  town,  suppos- 
ing I would  let  her  see  my  things,  as  I always  told  her  I was  ex- 
tremely fond  of  her.  Well,  I lent  her  a gown,  which  was  quite 
old-fashioned,  but  assured  her  it  wasdhe  very  newest  mode.  She 
accordingly  had  her  beautiful  muslins  cut  in  imitation  of  it,  and 
so  spoiled  them  from  making  any  other  habit.  Well,  we  met  at 
an  assize  ball,  where  all  the  elep-ant  peonle  of  the  county  were 


128 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


assembled,  and,  I declare,  I never  saw  so  ridiculous  a figure  as  she 
made.  When  she  found  herself  unlike  every  one  in  the  room,  I 
really  thought  she  would  have  fainted,  and  that  my  poor  sister 
and  I should  have  expired  with  laughing.  Poor  thing  ! the  tears 
absolutely  trickled  down  her  cheeks.  Do  not  you  think  it  was  a 
charming  trick  ? ’ ‘ Very  much  so,  ’ said  Amanda  ; ‘ I think  it  gave 

a striking  specimen  of  your  humor.’  ‘Well,  my  dear,’  exclaimed 
Miss  Kilcorban,  without  minding  the  marked  emphasis  of 
Amanda’s  last  words,  ‘ if  you  allow  us,  my  sister  and  I will  call 
on  you  to-morrow  to  look  over  your  things.’  ‘ It  would  be  giv- 
ing yourselves  a great  deal  of  unnecessary  trouble,’  replied 
Amanda,  coolly,  who  did  not  by  any  means  relish  this  forward 
proposal  ; ‘ my  things  can  boast  of  little  but  simplicity,  and  I am 
always  my  own  milliner.’  ‘ Really  ! well,  I protest  you  have  a 
great  deal  of  taste  ; my  maid,  who  is  very  handy,  would,  I think, 
be  able  to  make  up  things  in  pretty  much  the  same  style,  if  you 
were  obliging  enough  to  give  her  patterns.  If  you  do,  perhaps 
you  will  add  to  the  favor,  and  allow  us  to  say  they  are  the  new- 
est Bath  fashions.  Was  you  ever  at  Bath  ? ’ ‘ No.’  ‘ Oh  ! then, 
I assure  you,  you  have  a monstrous  pleasure  to  come  ; it  is  the 
sweetest  place  on  earth — quite  a paradise  I I declare  I thought  I 
should  have  died  with  grief  at  leaving  it.  Papa  has  been  inexor- 
able ever  since  to  our  entreaties  for  a second  trip.  He  says  the 
first  cost  too  much  money.  Indeed,  it  was  an  enormous  sum  ; 
only  think  how  much.’  ‘lam  the  worst  person  in  the  world,’ 
said  Amanda,  ‘for  guessing,’  sick  of  her  impertinent  volubility, 
and  moving  from  the  window.  The  evening  was  fine,  and  the 
grounds  about  the  house  beautiful ; she  therefore  proposed  a walk. 
At  this  proposal,  the  young  ladies,  who  had  hitherto  been  in 
d.eep  confab,  looked  at  each  other,  and  remained  silent  for  some 
minutes.  Miss  Kilcorban,  then,  who  had  no  notion  of  gratifying 
the  inclination  of  her  guest  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  own,  said,  ‘it 
blew  a little,  and  that  her  hair  would  be  ruined,  and  the  Mar- 
chelle  powder  blown  from  it  by  such  a walk.’  Another  young 
lady,  looking  down  at  her  white  satin  slippers,  vowed  ‘ she  would 
not  venture  into  the  grass  for  worlds.’  A third  declared,  ‘ when 
once  dressed,  she  could  not  bear  to  be  tumbled.’  Amanda  had  too 
much  politeness  to  repeat  her  wish,  and  it  was,  therefore,  unani- 
mously agreed  upon  among  the  fair  coterie,  that  they  should  con- 
tinue in  the  drawing-room,  to  be  in  statu  quo  for  the  reappearance 
of  the  beaux. 

Lady  Greystock  now  beckoned  to  our  heroine  to  take  a seat  by 
her.  She  gladly  obeyed.  ‘ Well,  my  dear,’  said  her  ladyship,  ‘I 
hope  you  have  had  enough  of  these  country  misses — those  would- 
be  misses  of  the  ton.’  Amanda  smiled  assentingly.  ‘Heaven 
defend  me,  or  anyone  I like,’  continued  her  ladyship,  ‘ from  theif 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


129 


clack ! The  confusion  of  Babel  was,  I really  believe,  inferior  to 
that  their  tongues  create,  yet  some  people  have  the  absurdity  to 
reckon  these  girls  accomplished.  Poor  Mrs.  Kilcorban  torments 
one  with  the  perfections  of  her  daughters ; against  they  are  disposed 
of,  which  she  imagines  will  be  very  soon,  she  has  a new  brood  of 
graces  training  up  to  bring  out.  Mercy  on  me ! what  a set  of  hoy« 
dens.  I would  lay  my  life,  at  this  very  instant  they  are  galloping 
about  the  nursery  like  a parcel  of  wild  colts,  tearing  or  tormenting 
an  unfortunate  French  governess,  who  was  formerly  fille  de 
chambre  to  a woman  of  quality,  and  does  not  understand  even  the 
grammatical  part  of  her  own  language.’  ‘ Mrs.  Kilcorban’s 
opinion  of  her  children,’  said  Amanda,  ‘ is  natural,  considering 
the  partiality  of  a parent.  ’ ‘ Yes ; but  not  more  bearable  on  that 

account,’  replied  her  ladyship;  ‘and  I should  endeavor  to  open 
her  eyes  to  her  folly,  if  I thought  her  acquaintances  would  forgive 
my  depriving  them  of  such  a fund  of  amusement.’ 

Mr.  Brian  Kilcorban,  with  some  gentlemen,  now  entered  the 
room,  and  advanced  to  Amanda.  ‘So,’  said  he,  ‘you  have  got 
by  the  dowager ; hang  me,  but  I would  let  my  beard  grow,  if  all 
women  resembled  her  in  their  dispositions.'  ‘ By  the  way  of  ap- 
pearing sagacious,  I suppose,  ’ said  her  ladyship,  who  was  extremely 
quick,  and  had  caught  the  last  words.  ‘ Alas ! poor  youth,  no  em- 
bellishments on  the  exterior  would  ever  be  able  to  make  us  believe 
the  tenement  within  well  furnished.  ’ Her  ladyship  was  now  sum- 
moned to  a whist-table,  and  Miss  Kilcorban  immediately  took  her 
vacant  seat.  ‘ My  dear  creature  ! ’ said  she,  ‘ are  you  not  bored  to- 
death?  Lady  Greystock  is  a queer  piece,  I can  assure  you.  I 
suppose  she  was  asking  some  favor  from  you,  such  as  to  work  her 
an  apron  or  handkerchief.  She  is  noted  everywhere  for  requesting 
such  little  jobs,  as  she  calls  them ; indeed,  we  should  never  put  up 
with  the  trouble  she  gives  us,  but  that  she  is  vastly  rich,  and  papa’s- 
relation,  and  has  no  one  so  nearly  connected  with  her  as  we  are.’ 
‘ All  very  good  reasons  for  your  complaisance,’  replied  Amanda; 
‘ but  should  you  not  be  more  careful  in  concealing  them?  ’ ‘ O 

Lord ! no;  everyone  knows  them  as  well  as  we  do  ourselves.  She 
was  here  last  summer,  and  took  a fancy  to  the  pattern  of  an  apron 
of  mine ; and  made  me  the  reasonable  request  of  working  one  like 
it  for  her.  All  this  she  pretended  was  to  prevent  my  being  idle. 
Well,  I said  I would,  and  wrote  up  to  the  Moravian  House  in 
Dublin,  where  I had  got  mine,  for  one  exactly  like  it.  In  due  time 
I received  and  presented  it  to  the  dowager,  certain  that,  in  return, 
I should  receive  a few  of  her  diamond  pins,  which  she  had  often 
heard  me  admire.  They  are  the  prettiest  I ever  saw,  and  quite 
unfit  for  her,  but  she  had  the  cruelty  to  disappoint  me.’  ‘ Upon 
my  faith  ! ’ cried  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  who  had  taken  a chair  at  the  other 
side  of  Amanda,  and  listened  with  evident  pleasure  to  her  daughter’s 


130 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


voluble  speech,  * Lady  Greystock  is  an  odd  being ; I never  met  with 
anyone  like  her  in  all  my  travels  through  Eugland,  Ireland,  and 
Wales;  but  she  is  a great  orator,  and  possesses  the  gift  of  the  gab 
in  a wonderful  degree/ 

Ah,  indeed,’  thought  Amanda ; ‘ and  you  and  your  fair  daughters 
resemble  her  in  that  respect.  ’ After  tea,  she  was  prevailed  on  to 
sit  down  to  commerce : bnt  she  soon  grew  as  tired  of  the  party  as  of 
the  game,  and  lost  on  purpose  to  be  released.  She  had  hoped  for  a 
little  more  chat  with  Lady  Greystock ; but  her  ladyship  was  passion- 
ately fond  of  cards,  and  at  all  times  would  have  preferred  the  pleas- 
ures of  a card-table  to  the  eloquence  of  a Cicero.  Kilcorban,  on 
finding  her  disengaged,  tormented  her  with  many  absurd  compli- 
ments. A challenge  to  a brag-table  at  length  relieved  her  from 
his  nonsense,  and  she  loitered  about  the  card-tables  till  they  broke 
up  for  supper. 

Amanda  always  expressed  to  her  father  her  sentiments  of  any 
company  she  had  been  in  ; and  those  she  now  delivered,  on  quit- 
ting the  party,  perfectly  coincided  with  his.  He  laughed  at  the 
account  which  the  Kilcorbans  had  given  of  Lady  Greystock,  to 
whom  he  knew  they  paid  the  most  extravagant  flattery,  in  hopes 
oi  obtaining  seme  of  her  large  fortune. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

Remote  from  man,  with  God  they  passed  their  days, 

Prayer  all  their  business,  all  their  pleasure  praise.— Parnell. 

The  following  evening  they  were  engaged  to  spend  at  a 
farmer’s.  The  invitation  was  given  with  such  humility,  yet 
pressed  with  such  warmth,  that  they  could  not  avoid  accepting  it, 
and  accordingly,  soon  after  dinner,  walked  to  the  house,  which 
was  about  a mile  from  Castle  Carberry.  It  was  a low  thatched 
building — every  appendage  to  it  bespoke  neatness  and  comfort. 
It  was  situated  in  a beautiful  meadow,  inclosed  from  the  road  by 
a hawthorn  hedge,  and  on  the  opposite  side  lay  an  extensive 
common,  on  which  stood  the  stupendous  and  venerable  ruins  of 
an  abbey,  called  St.  Catherine’s.  They  appeared  a melancholy 
monument  of  the  power  of  time  over  strength  and  grandeur ; 
and  while  they  attracted  the  observation  of  the  curious,  excited  a 
sigh  in  the  bosom  of  sensibility. 

The  farmer’s  family  consisted  of  three  daughters  and  two  sons, 
who  were  now  dressed  in  their  best  array.  They  had  assembled 
a number  of  their  neighbors,  among  whom  was  a little  fat  priest, 
called  Father  O’Gallaghan — considered  the  life  of  every  party— 
and  a blind  piper.  The  room  was  small,  and  crowded  with 
furniture  as  well  as  company.  It  was  only  divided  from  the 
kitchen  by  a short  passage,  and  the  steam  of  hot  cakes,  and  th<> 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


131 


jsmoke  of  a turf  fire,  which  issued  thence,  soon  rendered  it  dis* 
tressingly  warm.  Amanda  got  as  near  the  window  as  possible^ 
but  still  could  not  procure  sufficient  air  ; and  as  everything  for 
tea  was  not  quite  ready,  asked  one  of  the  Miss  O’  Flannaghans  if 
she  wpuld  accompany  her  to  St.  Catherine’s.  She  answered  in 
the  affirmative.  The  priest,  who  had  been  smirking  at  her  ever 
since  her  entrance,  now  shook  his  fat  sides,  and  said  he  wished  he 
could  get  her  initiated  there  ; ‘ for  it  would  do  my  soul  good,’  cried 
he,  ‘ to  confess  such  a pretty  little  creature  as  you  are.  Though 
faith,  I believe  I should  find  you  like  Paddy  McDenough,  who 
used  to  come  to  confession  every  Easter,  though  the  devil  a thing 
the  poor  man  had  to  confess  about  at  all  at  all.  So,  says  I to  him, 
“ Paddy,  my  jewel,”  says  1,  “ I believe  I must  make  a saint  of  you, 
and  lay  you  on  the  altar.”  “Oh  I honey,  father  !”  cried  he, 
“not  yet  awhile,  till  I get  a new  suit  of  clothes  on,  which  I shall  by 
next  Michaelmas.  ” ’ Amanda  left  them  all  laughing  at  this  story, 
and  her  father  engaged  in  conversation  with  some  farmers,  who 
were  desiring  his  interest  with  Lord  Cherbury,  for  new  leases  on 
moderate  terms. 

Amanda  had  about  a quarter  of  a mile  to  walk  across  the  com- 
mon ; the  ground  was  marshy  and  uneven,  and  numerous  stumps 
of  trees  denoted  its  having  once  been  a noble  forest,  of  which  no 
memorial  but  these  stumps,  and  a few  tall  trees  immediately  near 
the  abbey,  remained,  that  stretched  their  venerable  arms  around 
it,  as  if  to  shade  that  ruin  whose  progress  they  had  witnessed, 
and  which  Amanda  found  well  worthy  of  inspection.  She  was 
equally  astonished  at  its  elegance  and  extent  ; with  sacred  awe 
traversing  the  spacious  cloisters,  the  former  walks  of  holy  medi- 
tation, she  pursued  her  way  through  winding  passages,  where 
vestiges  of  cells  were  yet  discernible,  over  whose  moldering 
arches  the  grass  waved  in  rank  luxuriance,  and  the  creeping  ivy 
spread  its  gloomy  foliage,  and  viewed  with  reverence  the  graves 
of  those  who  had  once  inhabited  them  ; they  surrounded  that  of 
the  founder’s,  which  was  distinguished  by  a cross,  and  Miss 
O’  Flannaghan  related  the  traditions  that  were  current  concerning 
him.  He  was  a holy  monk  who  had  the  care  of  a pious  lady’s 
conscience  ; she,  on  her  death-bed,  had  a,  remarkable  dream,  or 
vision,  in  which  she  thought  an  angel  appeared,  and  charged  her 
to  bequeath  her  wealth  to  her  confessor,  who  would,  no  doubt, 
make  a much  better  use  of  it  than  those  she  designed  it  for.  She 
obeyed  the  sacred  injunction,  and  the  good  man  immediately  laid 
the  foundation  of  this  abbey,  which  he  called  after  his  benefactress, 
and  to  which  he,  and  the  community  he  belonged  to,  removed. 
The  chapel  was  roofless,  but  still  retained  many  i*elics  of  supersti- 
tious piety,  which  had  escaped,  in  a tolerable  degree,  both  time 
and  weather.  Saints  and  martyrs  were  curiously  cut  over  the 


^32 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


places  where  the  altars  and  cisterns  for  holy  water  had  once  stood^ 
to  which  Amanda  passed  through  a long  succession  of  elegant 
arches,  among  which  were  a number  of  tombstones,  with  curious 
devices  and  unintelligible  inscriptions.  Half  hid  by  grass  and 
weeds,  on  a flag,  which  she  perceived  must  have  been  lately  placed 
there,  she  saw  some  faded  flowers  strewn,  and  looking  at  her  com' 
panion,  saw  a tear  dropping  from  her  on  them.  She  gently  asked 
the  cause  of  it,  and  heard  a favorite  brother  was  interred  there. 
The  girl  moved  from  the  spot,  but  Amanda,  detained  by  an  irre- 
pressible emotion,  stayed  a minute  longer  to  contemplate  the 
awful  scene.  All  was  silent,  sad,  and  solitary  ; the  grass-grown 
aisles  looked  long  untrodden  by  human  foot,  the  green  and  mol- 
dering  walls  appeared  ready  to  crumble  into  atoms,  and  the  wind, 
which  howled  through  their  crevices,  sounded  to  the  ear  of 
fancy  as  sighs  of  sorrow  for  the  desolation  of  the  place.  Full  of 
moralizing  melancholy,  the  young,  the  lovely  Amanda,  hung 
over  the  grave  of  her  companion’s  youthful  brother  ; and  taking 
up  the  withered  flower,  wet  with  the  tear  of  sisterly  affection, 
dropped  another  on  it,  and  cried,  ‘ Oh  ! how  fit  an  emblem  is 
this  of  life  ! how  illustrative  of  these  words — 

‘ Man  comes  forth  as  a flower  in  the  field,  and  is  soon  cut  down.’ 

Miss  O’Flannaghan  now  led  her  through  some  more  windings, 
when,  suddenly  emerging  from  them,  she  found  herself,  to  her 
great  surprise,  in  a large  garden,  entirely  encompassed  by  the 
ruins,  and  in  the  center  of  it  stood  a long,  low  building,  which  her 
companion  informed  her  was  a convent  ; a folding  door  at  the 
side  opened  into  the  chapel,  which  they  entered,  and  found  a nun 
praying. 

Amanda  drew  back,  fearful  of  disturbing  her  ; but  Miss  O’Flan- 
naghan  accosted  her  without  ceremony,  and  the  nun  returned 
the  salutation  with  the  most  cordial  good-humor.  She  was  fifty, 
as  Amanda  afterward  heard,  for  she  never  could,  from  her  appear- 
ance, have  conceived  her  to  be  so  much.  Her  skin  was  fair  and 
perfectly  free  from  wrinkle  ; the  bloom  and  down  upon  her  cheeks 
as  bright  and  as  soft  as  that  upon  a peach  ; though  her  accent  at 
once  proclaimed  her  country,  it  was  not  unharmonious  ; and  the 
cheerful  obligingness  of  her  manner  amply  compensated  the  want 
of  elegance.  She  wore  the  religious  habit  of  the  house,  which  was  a 
loose  flannel  dress,  bound  round  her  waist  by  a girdle,  from  which 
hung  her  beads  and  a cross  ; a veil  of  the  same  stuff  descended 
to  the  ground,  and  a mob  cap,  and  forehead  cloth,  quite  con- 
cealed her  hair.*  Miss  O’Flannaghan  presented  Amanda  to  her 
as  a stranger,  who  wished  to  see  everything  curious  in  the  chapel. 

* The  Abbey  and  the  nun,  which  the  Author  has  attempted  to  describe,  were  suck 
as  she  really  saw,  but  in  a different  part  of  Ireland  from  that  which  she  has  mentioned 


THE  CHIBDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


133 


*Ah  I my  honey,’  erred  she,  ‘ I am  sorry  she  has  come  at  a time 
when  she  will  see  us  all  in  the  dismals,  for  you  know  we  are  in 
mourning*  for  our  prioress  [the  altar  was  hung  in  black]  ; but,  my 
dear  [turning  to  Amanda],  do  you  mean  to  come  here  next  Sun- 
day ? for  if  you  do,  you  will  find  us  all  bright  again.’  Upon 
Amanda’s  answering  in  the  negative,  she  continued,  ‘ Faith,  and 
I am  sorry  for  that,  for  I have  taken  a great  fancy  to  you,  and 
when  I like  a person,  I always  wish  them  as  great  a chance  of 
happiness  as  I have  myself.’  Amanda,  smiling,  said  she  believed 
none  could  desire  a greater,  and  the  nun  obligingly  proceeded 
to  show  her  all  the  relics  and  finery  of  the  chapel  ; among  the 
former  v/as  a head  belonging  to  one  of  the  eleven  thousand  virgin 
martyrs,  and  the  latter,  a chest  full  of  rich  silks,  which  pious 
ladies  had  given  for  the  purpose  of  dressing  the  altar.  Pulling  a 
drawer  from  under  it,  she  displayed  a quantity  of  artificial  flow- 
ers, which,  she  said,  were  made  by  the  sisters  and  their  scholars. 

Amanda  wished  to  make  a recompense  for  the  trouble  she  had 
given,  and  finding  they  were  to  be  sold,  purchased  a number,  and 
having  given  some  to  Miss  O’Flannaghan,  whom  she  observed 
viewing  them  with  a wishful  eye,  she  left  the  rest  with  the  nun, 
promising  to  call  for  them  the  next  day.  ‘Ay,  do,’  said  she,  ^and 
you  may  be  sure  of  a sincere  welcome.  You  will  see  a set  of 
happy  poor  creatures,  and  none  happier  than  myself.  I entered 
the  convent  at  ten  ; I took  the  vows  at  fifteen,  and  from  that  time 
to  the  present,  which  is  a long  stretch,  I have  passed  a contented 
rfe,  thanks  be  to  our  Blessed  Lady ! ’ raising  her  sparkling  eyes  to 
heaven.  They  ascended  a few  steps  to  the  place  where  the  com- 
munity sat.  It  was  divided  from  the  body  of  the  chapel  by  a 
slight  railing.  Here  stood  the  organ.  The  nun  sighed  as  she 
looked  at  it.  ‘ Poor  Sister  Agatha,’  cried  she,  ‘ we  shall  never  get 
such  another  organist.  She  was  always  fit  indeed  for  the  heav- 
enly choir.  Oh ! my  dear,’  turning  to  Amanda,  ‘ had  you  known 
her,  you  would  have  loved  her.  She  was  our  late  prioress,  and 
elected  to  that  office  at  twenty-nine,  which  is  reckoned  an  early 
age  for  it,  on  account  of  the  cleverness  it  requires.  She  had  held  it 
but  two  years  when  she  died,  and  we  never  were  so  comfortable 
as  during  her  time,  she  managed  so  well.  The  mourning  in  the 
chapel,  as  I have  already  told  you,  will  be  over  for  her  next  Sun- 
day ; but  that  which  is  in  our  hearts  will  not  be  so  speedily  re- 
moved.’ Miss  O’Flannaghan  now  reminded  Amanda  it  was  time 
to  return,  to  which,  with  secret  reluctance,  she  consented.  The 
nun  pressed  her  to  stay  to  tea  ; but,  on  hearing  of  her  engage- 
ment, only  reminded  her  of  the  promised  visit.  In  their  walk 
back,  her  companion  informed  Amanda  that  the  society  consisted 
of  twelve  nuns.  Their  little  fortunes,  though  sunk  in  one  com- 
mon fund,  were  insufficient  to  supply  their  necessities,  which 


134 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


compelled  them  to  keep  a day-school  in  which  the  neighboring 
children  were  instructed  in  reading,  writing,  plain  work,  embroid- 
ery, and  artificial  fiowers.  She  also  added  that  the  nuns  were 
allowed  to  go  out,  but  few  availed  themselves  of  that  liberty,  and 
that,  except  in  fasting,  they  were  strangers  to  the  austerities  prac- 
ticed in  foreign  convents. 

For  such  a society  Amanda  thought  nothing  could  be  better 
adapted  than  their  present  situation.  Sheltered  by  the  ruins,  like 
the  living  entombed  among  the  dead,  their  wishes,  like  their  views, 
were  bounded  by  the  moldering  walls,  as  no  object  appeared  be*- 
yond  them  which  could  tempt  their  wandering  from  their  usual 
limits.  The  dreary  common,  which  met  their  view,  could  not  be 
more  bleak  and  inhospitable  than  the  world  in  general  would  have 
proved  to  these  children  of  poverty  and  nature. 

Father  O’Gallaghan  met  the  ladies  at  the  door,  and,  familiarly 
taking  Amanda’s  hand,  said,  ‘ Why,  you  have  stayed  long  enough 
to  be  made  a nun  of.  Here,’  said  he,  ‘ the  cakes  are  buttered,  the 
tea  made,  and  we  are  all  waiting  for  you.  Ah!  you  little  rogue,’ 
smirking  in  her  face,  ‘ by  the  head  of  St.  Patrick,  those  twinklers 
of  yours  were  not  given  for  the  good  of  your  soul.  Here  you  are 
come  to  play  pell-mell  among  the  hearts  of  the  honest  Irish  lads. 
Ah,  the  devil  a doubt  but  you  will  have  mischief  enough  to  answer 
for  by  and  by,  and  then  I suppose  you  will  be  coming  to  me  to  confess 
and  absolve  you ; but  remember,  my  little  honey,  if  you  do,  I must 
be  paid  beforehand. ' Amanda  disengaged  her  hand,  and  entered 
the  parlor,  where  the  company,  by  a display  of  pocket-handker- 
chiefs on  their  laps,  seemed  prepared  to  make  a do  wnright  meal 
of  the  good  things  before  them.  The  Miss  O’Flannaghans,  from 
the  toils  of  the  tea-table,  at  last  grew  as  red  as  the  ribbon  with  which 
they  were  profusely  ornamented.  The  table  at  length  remo.ved, 
the  chairs  arranged,  and  benches  placed  in  the  passage  for  the  old 
folks,  the  signal  for  a dance  was  given  by  the  piper’s  playing  an 
Irish  jig.  The  farmer’s  eldest  son,  habited  in  his  sky-blue  coat, 
his  hair  combed  sleek  on  his  forehead,  and  his  complexion  as  bright 
as  a full-blown  poppy,  advanced  to  our  heroine,  and  begged,  with 
much  modesty,  and  many  bows,  she  would  do  him  the  favor  to 
stand  up  with  him.  She  hesitated  a little,  when  Father  O’Gallag- 
han, giving  her  a tap,  or  rather  slap,  on  the  shoulder,  made  her 
.start  suddenly  from  her  seat.  He  laughed  heartily  at  this,  declar- 
ing he  liked  to  see  a girl  alive  and  merry.  As  he  could  not  join 
in  the  dance,  he  consoled  himself  with  being  master  of  the  cere- 
monies, and  insisted  on  Amanda’s  dancing  and  leading  off  “ The 
Priest  in  his  Boots.  ” She  felt  little  inclined  to  comply,  but  she  was 
one  of  those  who  can  sacrifice  their  own  inclination  to  that  of 
others.  Being  directed  in  the  figure  by  the  priest,  she  went  down 
the  dance,  but  the  floor  being  an  earthen  one,  by  the  time  she  had 


THE  CHILDREX  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


135 


concluded  it,  she  begged  they  would  excuse  her  sitting  the  remain^ 
der  of  the  evening,  she  felt  so  extremely  fatigued.  She  and  Fitz- 
alan  would  gladly  have  declined  staying  supper,  but  this  they 
found  impossible,  without  either  greatly  mortifying,  or  absolutely 
oflPending  their  hospitable  entertainers. 

The  table  was  covered  with  a profusion  of  good  country  fare, 
and  none  seemed  to  enjoy  it  more  truly  than  the  priest.  In  the 
intervals  of  eating,  his  jests  flew  about  in  every  direction.  The 
scope  he  gave  to  his  vivacity  exhilarated  the  rest,  so  that,  like 
Falstaff,  he  was  not  only  witty  himself,  but  a promoter  of  wit  in 
others.  ‘ Pray,  father,’  said  a young  man  to  him,  ‘ what  do  you 
give  in  return  for  all  the  good  cheer  you  get?  ’ ‘ My  blessing,  to 

be  sure,’  replied  he.  ‘ What  better  could  I give?  ’ ‘ Ay,  so  you 

may  think,  but  that  is  not  the  case  with  us  all,  I promise  you.  It 
is  so  pithy,  I must  tell  you  a story  about  that  same  thing  called  a 
priest’s  blessing.  A poor  man  went  one  day  to  a priest,  who  had 
the  name  of  being  very  rich  and  very  charitable;  but  as  all  we 
hear  is  not  gospel,  so  the  poor  man  doubted  a little  the  truth  of 
the  latter  report,  and  resolved  on  trying  him.  “ Father,”  says  he, 
“ I have  met  with  great  losses.  My  cabin  was  burned,  my  pigs 
stolen,  and  my  cow  fell  into  a ditch  and  broke  her  neck;  so  I am 
come  to  ask  your  reverence,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  to  lend  me  a 
crown.”  “ A crown!  ” repeated  the  angry  and  astonished  priest. 
“ Oh  1 you  rogue,  where  do  you  think  I could  get  money  to  lend, 
except,  like  yourself,  I had  pilfered  and  stolen?”  “Oh!  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there,”  replied  the  man.  “ You  know  I cleared 
the  score  on  my  conscience  with  you  long  ago,  so  tell  me,  father, 
if  you  will  lend  me  half  a crown?  ” “ No,  nor  a shilling.”  “ Well, 

a farthing,  then ; anything  from  such  a good  man  as  you.  ” ‘ ‘ No,  ” 

said  the  priest,  ‘ ‘ not  a mite.  ” ‘ ‘ Mayn’t  I have  your  blessing?  ” then 

asked  the  man.  “Oh  ! that  you  shall,  and  welcome,”  replied  he, 
smiling.  “Why,  then,  father,”  returned  the  other,  “ I would  re- 
fuse it  if  you  forced  it  upon  me ; for,  do  you  see,  had  it  been  worth 
one  farthing,  you  would  have  refused  it  to  me.”  ’ 

‘ You  have  put  me  in  mind  of  a very  curious  story,’  exclaimed 
another  young  man,  as  this  one  concluded  his.  ‘ A young 
knight  went  into  a chapel  in  Spain  one  morning,  where  he  ob- 
served a monk  standing  in  a supplicating  attitude,  with  a box  in 
his  hand.  He  asked  him  what  this  was  for,  and  learned,  to  col- 
lect money  for  praying  the  souls  of  fifty  Christians  out  of  purga- 
tory, whom  the  Moors  had  murdered.  The  knight  threw  a piece 
of  money  into  the  box,  and  the  monk,  after  repeating  a short 
prayer,  exclaimed,  “There  is  one  soul  redeemed.”  The  knight 
threw  in  a second,  and  the  priest,  after  the  same  ceremony,  cried, 
■‘There  is  another  free.”  Thus  they  both  went  on,  one  giving, 
and  the  other  praying,  till,  by  the  monk  s account,  all  the  souls 


136 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


were  free.  ‘‘Are  you  sure  of  this  ? ” inquired  the  knight.  “ Ay,’* 
replied  the  priest,  ‘ ‘ they  are  all  assembled  together  at  the  gate  of 
heaven,  which  St.  Peter  gladly  opened  for  them,  and  they  are 
now  joyfully  seated  in  Paradise.  ” “ From  whence  they  cannot  be 

removed,  I suppose,”  said  the  knight.  “ Removed  ! ” repeated  the 
astonished  priest.  “No,  the  world  itself  might  be  easier  moved.” 
“Then,  if  you  please,  holy  father,  return  me  my  ducats;  they 
have  accomplished  the  purpose  for  which  they  were  given,  and, 
as  I am  only  a poor  cavalier,  without  a chance  of  being  as  happily 
situated,  at  least  for  some  years,  as  the  souls  we  have  mutually 
contributed  to  release,  I stand  in  great  need  of  them.' 

Fitzalan  was  surprised  at  the  freedom  with  which  they  treated 
the  priest  ; but  he  laughed  as  merrily  as  the  rest  at  their  stories, 
for  he  knew  that,  though  they  sometimes  allowed  themselves  a 
little  latitude,  they  neither  wished  nor  attempted  to  shake  off  his 
power. 

Fitzalan  and  Amanda  withdrew  as  early  as  possible  from  the 
party,  which,  if  it  wanted  every  other  charm,  had  that  of  novelty, 
at  least  to  them.  The  next  morning  Amanda  repaired  to  the 
convent,  and  inquired  for  Sister  Mary,  the  good-natured  nun  she 
had  seen  the  preceding  evening.  She  immediately  made  her  ap- 
pearance, and  was  delighted  at  seeing  Amanda.  She  conducted 
her  to  the  schoolroom,  where  the  rest  of  the  nuns  and  the  pupils 
were  assembled  ; and  Amanda  was  delighted  with  the  content  and 
regularity  which  appeared  in  the  society,  as  well  as  the  obliging 
eagerness  they  showed  to  gratify  her  curiosity.  They  led  her 
through  the  house,  which  contained  a number  of  apartments, 
every  nun  having  one  to  herself,  furnished  with  a bed, chair,  table, 
and  crucifix,  and  then  to  the  parlor,  where  their  new  prioress  sat. 
She  was  a woman  far  advanced  in  life.  Had  a painter  wanted  to 
personify  benevolence,  he  might  have  chosen  her  for  a model — 
so  soft,  so  benignant  was  her  countenance.  Sorrow,  as  well  as 
time,  had  marked  it  deeply  ; but  the  mild  expression  of  her  eyes 
announced  the  most  perfect  resignation  to  that  sorrow.  She  re- 
ceived Amanda  with  the  truest  politeness  and  most  friendly 
warmth  ; and  Amanda  felt  impressed  with  real  reverence  for  her. 
While  she  acknowledged  in  her  mind  there  could  not  be  a hap- 
pier situation  for  her  than  her  present,  she  thought  it  a pity  the 
world  had  been  deprived  of  a woman  who  would  have  proved 
such  an  ornament  to  it.  Sister  Mary  disappeared,  but  returned 
in  a few  minutes  with  cake  and  currant- wine,  which  she  forced 
Amanda  to  take.  The  good  sister  was  enchanted  with  her  young 
visitor,  and  having  no  idea  of  concealing  her  feelings,  she  openly 
expressed  her  admiration.  ‘ Dear  mother,'  said  she,  addressing 
the  prioress,  ‘ is  she  not  a lovely  creature  ? What  pretty  eyes  she 
has  got,  and  what  sweet  little  hands  ! Oh,  if  our  Blessed  Lady 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


137 


would  but  touch  her  heart,  and  make  her  become  one  of  us,  I 
should  be  so  happy.’  The  prioress  smiled  ; she  was  not  so  great 
an  enthusiast  as  Sister  Mary.  ‘ It  would  be  a pity,’  said  she,  ‘ so 
sweet  a flower  should  be  hid  amidst  the  ruins  of  St.  Catherine’s.* 
Amanda  made  an  addition  to  the  flowers ; she  was  thanked  by  the 
nuns,  and  entreated  to  favor  them  often  with  a visit.  Just  as  she 
reached  Castle  Carberry,  she  saw  the  Kilcorbans’  carriage  stop  at 
it,  from  which  Lady  Grey  stock  and  the  young  ladies  alighted. 
They  both  spoke  at  once,  and  so  extremely  fast  that  Amanda 
scarcely  understood  what  they  said.  They  declared  a thousand 
impertinent  visitors  had  prevented  their  coming  the  preceding 
morning  and  looking  at  the  things  she  had  obligingly  promised 
to  show  them.  Amanda  recollected  no  such  promise,  but  would 
not  contradict  them,  and  permitted  their  taking  what  patterns 
they  liked.  Lady  Greystock  smiled  sarcastically  at  her  young 
kinswomen,  and  expressed  a wish  to  see  the  castle.  Amanda  led 
her  through  it.  Her  ladyship  was  particularly  pleased  with  the 
dressing  room.  Here  the  young  ladies,  with  rude  and  eager 
curiosity,  examined  everything  ; but  her  ladyship,  who  was  full  as 
curious  as  themselves,  could  not  condemn  freedoms  she  took  her- 
self. Observing  a petticoat  in  a tambour  frame,  she  admired  the 
pattern  ; and  hearing  it  was  designed  by  Amanda,  extolled  her 
fine  taste,  and  declared  she  should  of  all  things  like  to  have  one 
worked  in  the  same.  This  hint  was  too  plain  to  pass  unnoticed. 
Amanda  wished  to  oblige,  particularly  anyone  advanced  in  life, 
and  told  her  ladyship  she  would  work  one  for  her.  Lady  Grey- 
stock  smiled  most  graciously  at  this,  and  pressing  her  hand,  de- 
clared she  was  a charming  girl.  The  Miss  Kilcorbans  winked 
slyly,  and,  taking  her  hand  in  turn,  assured  her  they  had  con- 
ceived a most  ardent  friendship  for  her,  and  hoped  she  would 
often  favor  them  with  her  company.  Amanda  answered  those 
insincere  professions  with  cool  civility,  and  the  visitors  departed. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Oh  I fields,  oh  ! woods,  when,  when,  shall  I be  made 
The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade  I—Cowlet. 

Solitude  to  Amanda  was  a luxury,  as  it  afforded  her  oppor- 
tunities of  indulging  the  ideas  on  which  her  heart  delighted  to 
dwell  ; she  yet  believed  she  should  see  Lord  Mortimer,  and  that 
Lord  Cherbury’s  sanctioning  their  attachment  would  remove  the 
delicate  scruples  of  her  father.  From  soothing  his  passing  hours, 
beguiling  her  own  with  the  accomplishments  she  possessed,  and 
indulging  the  tender  suggestions  of  hope,  a pleasure  arose  she 
thought  ill  exchanged  for  the  trifling  gayety  of  the  parties  she  was 


38 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


frequently  invited  to  ; she  was  never  at  a loss  for  amusement 
within  Castle  Carberry,  or  about  its  domain ; the  garden  became 
the  object  of  her  peculiar  care ; its  situation  was  romantic,  and 
long  neglect  had  added  to  its  natural  wildness.  Amanda  in  many 
places  discovered  vestiges  of  taste,  and  wished  to  restore  all  to 
primeval  beauty.  The  fruit  trees  were  matted  together,  the  alleys 
grass-grown,  and  the  flowers  choked  with  weeds  ; on  one  side 
lay  a small  wilderness,  which  surrounded  a Gothic  temple,  and  on 
the  other  green  slopes  with  masses  of  naked  rock  projecting 
through  them ; a flight  of  rugged  steps,  cut  in  the  living  rock,  led 
to  a cave  on  the  summit  of  one  of  the  highest;  a cross  rudely 
carved  upon  the  wall,  and  the  remains  of  a matted  couch,  denoted 
this  having  formerly  been  a hermitage ; it  overhung  the  sea,  and 
all  about  it  were  tremendous  crags,  against  which  the  waves  beat 
with  violence.  Over  a low-arched  door  was  a smooth  stone,  with 
the  following  lines  engraved  upon  it : 

The  pilgrim  oft 

At  dead  of  night,  amid  his  orisons  hears 
Aghast  the  voice  of  time— disparting  towers 
Tumbling  all  precipitate  down,  dashed 
Rattling  around,  loud  thundering  to  the  moon.— Dyer. 

Under  Amanda’s  superintending  care,  the  garden  soon  lost  its 
rude  appearance,  a new  couch  was  procured  for  the  hermitage, 
which  she  ornamented  with  shells  and  sea-weeds,  rendering  it  a 
most  delightful  recess;  the  trees  were  pruned,  the  alleys  cleared  of 
opposing  brambles,  and  over  the  wall  of  the  Gothic  temple  she  hung 
the  flowers  she  had  purchased  at  St.  Catherine’s,  in  fanciful  wreaths. 

She  often  ascended  the  devious  path  of  the  mountain  which 
stretched  beyond  Castle  Carberry,  and  beheld  the  waves  glitter- 
ing in  the  sunbeams,  from  which  its  foliage  sheltered  her.  But 
no  visionary  pleasures,  no  delightful  rambles,  no  domestic  avoca- 
tions made  her  forgetful  of  the  calls  of  benevolence;  she  visited 
the  haunts  of  poverty,  and  relieved  its  necessities  to  the  utmost  of 
Her  power;  the  wretchedness  so  often  conspicuous  among  many 
of  the  lower  rank  filled  her  not  only  with  compassion,  but  sur- 
prise, as  she  had  imagined  that  liberty  and  a fruitful  soil  were 
generally  attended  with  comfort  and  prosperity.  Her  father,  to 
whom  she  communicated  this  idea,  informed  her  that  the  indi- 
gence of  the  peasants  proceeded  in  a great  degree  from  the  emi- 
gration of  their  landlords.  ‘ Their  wealth,’  said  he,  ‘is  spent  in 
foreign  lands,  instead  of  enriching  those  from  whence  it  was 
drawn ; policy  should  sometimes  induce  them  to  visit  their  estates ; 
the  revenue  of  half  a year  spent  on  them  would  necessarily  benefit 
the  poor  wretches  whose  labors  have  contributed  to  raise  it;  and 
by  exciting  their  gratitude,  add  inclination  to  industry,  and  con* 
sequently  augment  their  profits. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


139 


* The  clouds,  which  are  formed  by  mists  and  exhalations,  return 
to  the  places  from  whence  they  were  drawn  in  fertilizing  showers 
and  refreshing  dews,  and  almost  every  plant  enriches  the  soil 
from  which  it  sprung.  Nature,  indeed,  in  all  her  works,  is  a 
glorious  precedent  to  man  ; but  while  enslaved  by  dissipation,  he 
cannot  follow  her  example,  and  what  exquisite  sources  of  enjoy- 
ment does  he  lose — to  enlighten  the  toils  of  labor,  to  cheer  the 
child  of  poverty,  to  raise  the  drooping  head  of  merit — oh  ! how 
superior  to  the  revels  of  dissipation,  or  the  ostentation  of  wealth. 

‘ Real  happiness  is  forsaken  for  a gaudy  phantom  called  pleas- 
ure ; she  is  seldom  grasped  but  for  a moment — yet  in  that  moment 
has  power  to  fix  envenomed  stings  within  the  breast.  The  heart 
which  delights  in  domestic  joys,  which  rises  in  pious  gratitude  to 
heaven,  which  melts  at  human  woe,  can  alone  experience  true 
pleasure.  The  fortitude  with  which  the  peasants  bear  their  suf- 
ferings should  cure  discontent  of  its  murmurs ; they  support  adver- 
sity without  complaining,  and,  those  who  possess  a pile  of  turf 
against  the  severity  of  the  winter,  a small  strip  of  ground  planted 
with  cabbage  and  potatoes,  a cow,  a pig,  and  some  poultry,  think 
themselves  completely  happy,  though  one  wretched  hovel  shelters 
all  alike.  ’ 

Oh ! how  rapturous ! thought  Amanda — the  idea  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer’s feeling  recurring  to  her  mind— to  change  such  scenes ; to 
see  the  clay-built  hovel  vanish,  and  a dwelling  of  neatness  and 
convenience  rise  in  its  stead ; to  wander,  continued  she,  with  him 
whose  soul  is  fraught  with  sensibility,  and  view  the  projects  of 
benevolence  realized  by  the  hand  of  charity ; see  the  faded  cheek 
of  misery  regain  the  glow  of  health. 

The  desert  blossom  as  the  rose, 

and  content  and  cheerfulness  sport  beneath  its  shades. 

From  such  an  ecstatic  reverie  as  this,  Amanda  was  roused  one 
morning  by  the  entrance  of  the  Kilcorbans  and  Lady  Greystock 
into  the  dressing  room  where  she  was  working.  ‘ Oh ! my  dear ! ’ 
cried  the  eldest  of  the  young  ladies,  ‘ we  have  such  enchanting 
news  to  tell  you.  Only  think,  who  is  coming  down  here  immedi- 
ately—your  uncle  and  aunt  and  cousin.  An  express  came  this 
morning  from  Dublin j where  they  now  are,  to  the  steward  at 
Ulster  Lodge,  to  have  everything  prepared  against  next  week  for 

them.  ‘ I declare,’  said  Miss  Alicia,  ‘ I shall  quite  envy  you  the 
delightful  amusement  you  will  have  with  them.’  Amanda 
blushed,  and  felt  a little  confused.  ‘ You  will  have  no  reason, 

then,  I fancy,’  replied  she.  ‘ for  I really  do  not  know  them.’  ‘O 
Lord!  ’ exclaimed  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  ‘ well,  that  is  very  comical,  not 
to  know  your  own  relations;  but  perhaps  they  always  lived  in 
Scotland,  and  you  were  afraid  to  cross  the  sea  to  pay  them  a visit, 


140 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBBY« 


‘If  that  was  the  only  fear  she  had,’  said  Lady  Greystock,  with  a 
satirical  smile,  ‘she  could  easily  have  surmounted  it;  besides, 
would  it  not  have  held  good  with  respect  to  one  place  as  well  as 
another?  ’ ‘ Well,  I never  thought  of  that,’  cried  Mrs.  Kilcorban; 

‘ but  pray,  miss,  may  I ask  the  reason  why  you  do  not  know  them 
by  letter?  ’ ‘ It  can  be  of  very  little  consequence  to  you,  madam,’ 

replied  Amanda  coolly,  ‘to  hear  it.’  ‘ They  say  Lady  Euphrasia 
Sutherland  is  very  accomplished,’  exclaimed  Miss  Kilcorbati;  ‘so 
a correspondence  with  her  would  have  been  delightful.  I dare 
say  you  write  sweetly  yourself;  so  if  ever  you  leave  Castle  Car- 
berry,  I beg  you  will  favor  me  with  letters,  for,  of  all  things,  I 
dote  on  a sentimental  correspondence.’  ‘ No  wonder,’  said  Lady 
Greystock,  ‘ you  are  so  particularly  well  qualified  to  support  one*’ 
‘ But,  my  dear ! ’ resumed  Miss  Kilcorban,  ‘ we  are  to  give  the  most 
enchanting  ball  that  ever  was  given  in  this  world ! Papa  says  we 
shall  have  full  liberty  to  do  as  we  please  respecting  it.  ’ ‘ It  will 

be  a troublesome  affair,  I am  afraid,’  said  Mrs.  Kilcorban.  ‘We 
are  to  have  confectioners  and  French  cooks  from  Dublin,’  con- 
tinued her  daughter,  without  minding  this  interruption.  ‘ Every- 
thing is  to  be  quite  in  style  and  prepared  against  the  third  night 
of  the  marquis  and  marchioness’s  arrival ; so,  my  dear,  you  and 
your  papa  will  hold  yourselves  in  readiness  for  our  summons.’ 
Amanda  bowed.  ‘My  sister  and  I are  to  have  dancing  dresses 
from  town,  but  I will  not  give  you  an  idea  of  the  manner  in 
which  we  have  ordered  them  to  be  made.  I assure  you,  you  will 
be  absolutely  surprised  and  charmed  when  you  see  them.  All 
the  elegant  men  in  the  country  will  be  at  our  entertainment.  1 
dare  say  you  will  be  vastly  busy  preparing  for  it.’  ‘ Nature,’  said 
Lady  Greystock,  ‘ has  been  too  bounteous  to  Miss  Fitzalan,  to 
render  such  preparations  necessary.’  ‘ 0 Lord ! ’ cried  the  young 
ladies,  with  a toss  of  their  heads,  ‘ Miss  Fitzalan  is  not  such  a fool, 
I suppose,  as  to  wish  to  appear  unlike  everyone  else  in  her  dress, 
but,’  rising  with  their  mamma,  and  saluting  her  much  more  form- 
ally than  they  had  done  at  their  entrance,  ‘ she  is  the  best  judge 
of  that.’ 

Fitzalan  had  never  seen  the  marchioness  since  his  marriage,  nor 
did  he  ever  again  wish  to  behold  her.  The  inhumanity  with 
which  she  had  treated  her  lovely  sister — the  malice  with  which 
she  had  augmented  her  father’s  resentment  against  the  poor  suf- 
ferer, had  so  strongly  prepossessed  his  mind  with  ideas  of  the  self- 
ishness and  implacability  of  hers,  as  to  excite  sentiments  of  distaste 
and  aversion  for  her.  He  considered  her  as  the  usurper  of  his 
children’s  rights — as  accessory  to  the  death  of  his  adored  Malvina, 
and  consequently  the  author  of  the  agonies  he  endured — agonies 
which  time,  aided  by  religion,  couid  scarcely  conquer 


fB>  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBBTw 


141 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Oh,  love,  how  are  thy  precious,  sweetest  minutes 
Thus  ever  crossed,  thus  vexed  with  disappointments ; 

Now  pride,  now  fickleness,  fantastic  quarrels. 

And  sullen  coldness  give  us  pain  by  turns.— Rows. 

At  the  expected  time,  the  marquis  and  his  family  arrived  with 
great  splendor  at  Ulster  Lodge,  which  was  immediately  crowded 
with  visitors  of  the  first  consequence  in  the  county,  among  whom 
were  the  Kilcorbans,  whose  affluent  fortune  gave  them  great  re- 
spectability. Mr.  Kilcorban  wished,  indeed,  to  be  first  in  paying 
his  compliments  to  the  marquis,  who  had  a borough  in  his  disposal 
he  was  desirous  of  being  returned  for.  Disappointed  the  last  time  he 
set  up  as  one  of  the  candidates  for  the  county,  this  was  his  only 
chance  of  entering  that  house  he  had  long  been  ambitious  for  a 
seat  in.  He  knew,  indeed,  his  oratorical  powers  were  not  very 
great — often  saying,  he  had  not  the  gift  of  the  gab  like  many  of 
the  honorable  gentlemen ; but  then  he  could  stamp  and  stare,  and 
look  up  to  the  gods  and  goddesses  * for  their  approbation,  with 
the  best  of  them ; and,  besides,  his  being  a member  of  parliament 
would  increase  his  consequence,  at  least  in  the  country. 

The  female  part  of  his  family  went  from  Ulster  Lodge  to  Castle 
Carberry,  which  they  entered  with  a more  consequential  air  than 
ever,  as  if  they  derived  new  consequence  from  the  visit  they  had 
been  paying.  Instead  of  fiying  up  to  Amanda,  as  usual,  the  young 
ladies  swam  into  the  room,  with  what  they  imagined  a most  be- 
witching elegance,  and,  making  a sliding  courtesy,  flung  them- 
selves upon  a sofa,  exactly  opposite  a glass,  and  alternately  viewed 
themselves,  and  pursued  their  remarks  on  Lady  Euphrasia’s 
dress.  ‘ Well,  certainly,  Alicia,’  said  Miss  Kilcorban,  ‘ I will  have 
a morning  gown  made  in  imitation  of  her  ladyship’s ; that  frill  of 
fine  lace  about  the  neck  is  the  most  becoming  thing  in  nature ; and 
the  pale  blue  lining  sweetly  adapted  fora  delicate  complexion.  ’ 
‘ I think,  Charlotte,’  cried  Miss  Alicia,  ‘ I will  have  my  tambour 
muslin  in  the  same  style,  but  lined  with  pink  to  set  off  the  work.' 

‘ This  aunt  of  yours,  my  dear,’  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  ‘ is 
really  a personable-looking  woman  enough,  and  her  daughter 
a pretty  little  sort  of  body.’ 

‘ Oh ! they  are  charming  creatures,’  cried  both  the  young  ladies; 
‘ so  elegant,  so  irresistibly  genteel.’ 

‘Your  ideas  and  mine,  then,’  said  Lady  Greystock,  ‘differ 
widely  about  elegance  and  irresistibility,  if  you  ascribe  either  to 
the  ladies  in  question.  Mr.  Kilcorban,’  continued  she,  turning  to 
Amanda,  ‘ feared,  I believe,  my  Lord  Marquis  would  fly  across 
the  sea  in  a few  hours;  and  that  he  might  catch  him  ere  he  took 

♦ Ladies  were  admitted  to  the  gallery  of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons 


142 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBBT< 


wing,  never  ceased  tormenting  us,  from  the  time  tneakfast  was 
over  till  we  entered  the  carriage,  to  make  haste,  though  he  might 
have  known  it  was  quite  too  early  for  fine  folks  to  be  visible. 

‘Well,  we  posted  ofiP  to  Ulster  Lodge,  as  if  life  and  death  de» 
pended  on  our  dispatch.  Mr.  Kilcorban  was  ushered  into  the 
marquis’s  study,  and  we  into  an  empty  room,  to  amuse  ourselves,  if 
we  pleased,  with  portraits  of  the  marquis’s  ancestors ; while  bells 
in  all  quarters  were  tingling — maids  and  footmen  running  up  and 
downstairs — and  cats,  dogs,  monkeys,  and  parrots,  which  I found 
composed  part  of  the  traveling  retinue,  were  scratching,  barking, 
chattering,  and  screaming,  in  a room  contiguous  to  the  one  we 
occupied.  At  length  a fine,  perfumed  jessamy  made  his  appear- 
ance, and  saying  the  ladies  were  ready  to  have  the  honor  of  receiv- 
ing us,  skipped  upstairs  like  a harlequin.  The  marchioness  ad- 
vanced about  two  steps  from  her  couch  to  receive  us,  and  Lady 
Euphrasia  half  rose  from  her  seat,  and  after  contemplating  us  for 
a minute,  as  if  to  know  whether  we  were  to  be  considered  as  human 
creatures  or  not,  sunk  back  into  her  former  attitude  of  elegant  lan- 
gour,  and  continued  her  conversation  with  a young  nobleman 
who  had  accompanied  them  from  England.’ 

‘ Well,  I hope  you  will  allow  he  is  a divine  creature,’  exclaimed 
Miss  Kilcorban,  in  an  accent  of  rapture.  ‘ Oh ! what  eyes  he  has,’ 
cried  her  sister : ‘ what  an  harmonious  voice ! I really  never  beheld 
anyone  so  exquisitely  handsome ! ’ 

‘ Lord  Mortimer,  indeed,  ’ said  Lady  Greystock — Amanda  started^ 
blushed,  turned  pale,  panted  as  if  for  breath,  and  stared  as  if  in 
amazement.  ‘ Bless  me.  Miss  Fitzalan,’  asked  her  ladyship,  ‘ are 
you  ill?’  ‘No,  madam,’  replied  Amanda,  in  a trembling  voice; 
‘ ’tis  only — ’tis  only  a little  palpitation  of  the  heart  I am  subject  to. 
I have  interrupted  your  ladyship;  pray  proceed.’  ‘ Well,’ con- 
tinued Lady  Greystock,  ‘ I was  saying  that  Lord  Mortimer  was 
one  of  the  most  elegant  and  engaging  young  men  I had  ever  be- 
held. His  expressive  eyes  seemed  to  reprove  the  folly  of  his  fair 
companion;  and  her  neglect  made  him  doubly  assiduous,  which 
to  me  was  a most  convincing  proof  of  a noble  mind.’ 

How  did  the  heart  of  Amanda  swell  with  pleasure  at  this  warm 
eulogium  on  Lord  Mortimer  ! The  tear  of  delight,  of  refined  af- 
fection, sprung  to  her  eye  and  could  scarcely  be  prevented  falling. 

‘Lord,  madam, ’cried  Miss  Kilcorban,  whose  pride  was  mortified 
at  Amanda’s  hearing  of  the  cool  reception  they  had  met  with, 
‘ I can’t  conceive  the  reason  you  ascribe  such  rudeness  and  conceit 
to  Lady  Euphrasia  ; ’tis  really  quite  a misconstruction  of  the 
etiquette  necessary  to  be  observed  by  people  of  rank.’ 

‘ I am  glad,  my  dear,’  replied  Lady  Greystock,  ‘you  are  now 
beginning  to  profit  by  the  many  lessons  I have  given  you  oil 
humility.’ 


THE  CHILDRE^T  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


143 


‘I  assure  you,  miss,’  said  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  ‘I  did  not  forget  to 
tell  the  marchioness  she  had  a niece  in  the  neighborhood.  I 
thought,  indeed,  she  seemed  a little  shy  on  the  subject ; so  I sup- 
pose there  has  been  a difference  in  the  families,  particularly  as 
you  don’t  visit  her  ; but,  at  our  ball,  perhaps,  everything  may  be 
settled.’  Amanda  made  no  reply  to  this  speech,  and  the  ladies 
departed. 

Her  bosom,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  was  agitated  with  the 
most  violent  perturbations  on  hearing  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  being 
in  the  neighborhood.  The  pleasure  she  felt  at  the  first  intelligence 
gradually  subsided  on  reflecting  he  was  an  inmate,  probably  a 
friend,  of  those  relations  who  had  contributed  to  the  destruction 
of  her  mother  ; and  who,  from  the  character  she  had  heard  of 
them,  it  was  not  uncharitable  to  think,  would  feel  no  great  regret, 
if  her  children  experienced  a destiny  equally  severe.  Might  they 
not  infuse  some  prejudices  against  her  into  his  bosom  ; to  know 
she  was  the  child  of  the  unfortunate  Malvina,  would  be  enough 
to  provoke  their  enmity  ; or,  if  they  were  silent,  might  not  Lady 
Euphrasia,  adorned  with  every  advantage  of  rank  and  fortune, 
have  won,  or  at  least  soon  win,  his  affections  ? 

Yet  scarcely  did  these  ideas  obtrude,  ere  she  reproached  herself 
for  them  as  injurious  to  Lord  Mortimer,  from  whose  noble  nature 
she  thought  she  might  believe  his  constancy  never  would  be 
shaken,  except  she  herself  gave  him  reason  to  relinquish  it. 

She  now  cheered  her  desponding  spirits,  by  recalling  the  ideas 
she  had  long  indulged  with  delight,  as  her  residence  was  still  a 
secret  to  the  Edwins,  whose  letters  to  their  daughter  were,  by 
Fitzalan’s  orders,  constantly  directed  to  a distant  town  from 
whence  hers,  in  return,  were  sent.  She  concluded  chance  had 
informed  Lord  Mortimer  of  it,  and  flattered  herself  that,  to  avoid 
the  suspicion  which  a solitary  journey  to  Ireland  might  create  in 
the  mind  of  Lord  Cherbury,  he  had  availed  himself  of  the  marquis’s 
party,  and  come  to  try  whether  she  was  unchanged,  and  her  father 
would  sanction  their  attachment,  ere  he  avowed  it  to  the  earl. 

While  fluctuating  between  hope  and  fear,  Ellen,  all  pale  and 
breathless,  ran  into  the  room,  exclaiming,  ‘ He  is  come  ! he  is 
come  ! Lord  Mortimer  is  come  I ’ 

‘ 0 heavens  ! ’ sighed  Amanda,  sinking  back  in  her  chair,  and 
dropping  her  trembling  hands  before  her.  Ellen,  alarmed,  blamed 
herself  for  her  precipitation,  and,  flying  to  a cabinet,  snatched  a 
bottle  of  lavender  water  from  it,  which  she  plentifully  sprinkled 
over  her,  and  then  assisted  her  to  a window.  ‘ I was  so  flurried,’ 
cried  the  good-natured  girl,  as  she  saw  her  mistress  recovering, 

‘ I did  not  know  what  I was  about.  Heaven  knows,  the  sight  of 
poor  Chip  himself  could  not  have  given  me  more  pleasure.  I 
was  crossing  the  hall  when  I saw  his  lortship  alighting  ; and  t9 


144 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


be  sure,  if  one  of  the  old  warriors  had  stepped  out  of  his  niche-- 
and  the  tefil  take  them  all,  I say,  for  they  grin  so  horribly  they 
frighten  me  out  of  my  wits  if  I go  through  the  hall  of  a dark  evem 
ing — so  if  one  of  them  old  fellows,  as  I was  saying,  had  jumped 
out,  I could  not  have  peen  more  startled,  and  pack  I ran  into  the 
little  parlor,  and  there  I heard  his  lortship  inquiring  for  my 
master  ; and  to  be  sure  the  sound  of  his  voice  did  my  heart  good, 
for  he  is  an  old  friend,  as  one  may  say.  So  as  soon  as  he  went  into 
the  study,  I stole  upstairs  ; and  one  may  guess  what  he  and 
my  master  are  talking  about,  I think.’ 

The  emotion  of  Amanda  increased.  She  trembled  so  she  could 
mot  stand.  She  felt  as  if  her  destiny,  her  future  happiness,  de- 
pended on  this  minute.  In  vain  she  endeavored  to  regain  com- 
posure. Her  spirits  were  wound  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  ex- 
pectation, and  the  agitations  inseparable  from  such  a state  were 
mot  to  be  repressed. 

She  continued  near  an  hour  in  this  situation,  when  the  voice  of 
Mortimer  struck  her  ear.  She  started  up,  and,  standing  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  saw  him  walking  down  the  lawn  with  her 
father,  who  left  him  when  he  had  reached  the  gate,  where  his  serv- 
ants and  horses  were.  The  chill  of  disappointment  pervaded  the 
heart  of  Amanda,  and  a shower  of  tears  fell  from  her.  Ellen,  who 
bad  remained  in  the  room,  was  almost  as  much  disappointed  as 
her  mistress.  She  muttered  something  about  the  inconstancy  of 
men.  They  were  all,  for  her  part,  she  pelieved,  alike  ; all  like  Mr. 
Chip — captious  on  every  occasion.  The  dinner-bell  now  sum- 
moned Amanda.  She  dried  her  eyes,  and  tied  on  a little  straw 
hat  to  conceal  their  redness.  With  much  confusion  she  appeared 
before  her  father.  His  penetrating  eye  was  instantly  struck  with 
her  agitation  and  pallid  looks,  and  he  conjectured  she  knew  of 
the  visit  he  had  received.  On  receiving  that  visit,  he  wondered 
not  at  the  strength  of  her  attachment.  The  noble  and  ingenuous 
air  of  Lord  Mortimer  had  immediately  prepossessed  Fitzalan  in 
his  favor.  He  saw  him  adorned  with  all  those  perfections  which 
are  calculated  to  make  a strong  and  permanent  impression  on  a 
heart  of  sensibility,  and  he  gave  a sigh  to  the  cruel  necessity  which 
compelled  him  to  separate  two  beings  of  such  congenial  loveli- 
ness ; but  as  that  necessity  neither  was  nor  could  be  overcome,  he 
rejoiced  that  Lord  Mortimer,  instead  of  visiting  him  on  account 
of  his  daughter,  had  merely  come  on  affairs  relative  to  the  castle, 
and  had  inquired  for  her  with  a coolness  which  seemed  to  declare 
his  love  totally  subdued.  Not  the  smallest  hint  relative  to  the 
letter  in  which  he  had  proposed  for  her  dropped  from  him,  and 
Fitzalan  concluded  his  affections  were  transferred  to  some  object 
more  the  favorite  of  fortune  than  his  portionless  Amanda. 

This  object,  he  was  inclined  to  believe,  was  Lady  Euphrasia 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


145 


Sutherland,  from  what  Lord  Cherbury  had  said  concerning  the 
splendid  alliance  he  had  in  view  for  his  son,  and  from  Lord 
Mortimer’s  accompanying  the  Roslin  family  to  Ireland. 

He  felt  he  had  not  fortitude  to  mention  those  conjectures  to 
Amanda.  He  rather  wished  she  should  iiibibe  them  from  her 
own  observation  ; and  pride,  he  then  trusted,  would  come  to  her 
aid,  and  stimulate  her  to  overcome  her  attachment.  Dinner 
passed  in  silence.  When  the  servant  was  withdrawn,  he  resolved 
to  relieve  the  anxiety  which  her  looks  informed  him  pressed  upon 
her  heart,  by  mentioning  the  visit  of  Lord  Mortimer.  He  came, 
he  told  her,  merely  to  see  the  state  the  castle  was  in,  and  thus 
proceeded  : ‘ Lord  Mortimer  is,  indeed,  an  elegant  and  sensible 
young  man,  and  will  do  honor  to  the  house  from  which  he  is  de- 
scended. He  had  long  wished,  he  told  me,  to  visit  this  estate, 
which  was  endeared  to  him  by  the  remembrance  of  his  juvenile 
days,  but  particularly  by  its  being  the  place  of  his  mother’s  nativ- 
ity, and  her  favorite  residence ; and  the  opportunity  of  traveling 
with  an  agreeable  party,  had  determined  him  no  longer  to  defer 
gratifying  this  wish. 

‘ He  mentioned  his  mother  in  terms  of  the  truest  respect  and 
tenderness  ; and  his  softened  voice,  his  tearful  eye,  proclaimed 
his  heart  the  mansion  of  sensibility.  His  virtues,  like  his  praises, 
will  do  honor  to  her  memory.  He  had  been  told  the  castle  was 
in  a very  ruinous  state,  and  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  it  in 
as  good  order  as  could  be  expected  from  its  ancient  date.  He  de- 
sired to  see  the  garden,  which  had  been  laid  out  under  the  direc- 
tion of  his  mother.  He  expected  not  to  have  found  a vestige  of 
her  taste  remaining,  and  was  consequently  charmed  to  find  him- 
self mistaken.  Every  spot  appeared  to  remind  him  of  some 
happy  hour,  especially  the  Grothic  temple.  “ How  many  happy 
minutes  have  I passed  in  this  place,”  said  his  lordship,  after  a 
silence  for  some  time,  “ with  the  best  of  woman.’’ — Upon  my  word, 
Amanda,’  continued  Fitzalan,  ‘you  have  ornamented  it  in  a very 
fanciful  manner.  I really  thought  his  lordship  would  have  stolen 
some  of  your  lilies  or  roses,  he  examined  them  so  accurately.' 
Amanda  blushed,  and  her  father  still  perceiving  expectation  in 
her  eyes,  thus  went  on  : ‘ His  lordship  looked  at  some  of  the  ad- 

jacent grounds  ; and  as  he  has  mentioned  what  improvements  he 
thought  necessary  to  be  made  in  them,  I fancy  he  will  not  repeat 
his  visit,  or  stay  much  longer  in  the  kingdom.’ 

In  a few  minutes  after  this  conversation  Fitzalan  repaired  to 
his  library,  and  Amanda  to  the  garden.  She  hastened  to  the 
temple.  Never  had  she  before  thought  it  so  picturesque,  or  such 
an  addition  to  the  landscape.  The  silence  of  Lord  Mortimer  on 
entering  it,  she  did  not,  like  her  father,  believe  proceeded  alto* 
gether  from  retracing  scenes  of  former  happiness  with  hin 


146 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


mother.  ‘ No,’  said  she,  ‘ in  this  spot  he  also,  perhaps,  thought  of 
Amanda.’ 

True,  he  had  mentioned  her  with  indifference  to  her  father,  but 
that  might  ( and  she  would  flatter  herself  it  did)  proceed  from 
resentment,  excited  by  her  precipitate  flight  from  Wales,  at  a 
period  when  his  received  addresses  gave  lihn  a right  to  informa- 
tion about  all  her  actions,  and  by  her  total  neglect  of  him  since. 
Their  first  interview,  she  trusted,  would  effect  a reconciliation,  by 
producing  an  explanation.  Her  father  then,  she  flattered  herself, 
tender  as  he  was,  depending  on  her  for  happiness,  and  prepossessed 
in  Lord  Mortimer  s favor,  would  no  longer  oppose  their  attach- 
ment, but  allow  Lord  Cherbury  to  be  informed  of  it,  who  she 
doubted  not,  would,  in  this  as  well  as  every  other  instance,  prove 
himself  truly  feeling  and  disinterested. 

Thus  did  Amanda,  by  encouraging  ideas  agreeable  to  her  wishes, 
try  to  soften  the  disappointment  she  had  experienced  in  the 
morning.  Fitzalan,  on  meeting  his  daughter  at  tea,  was  not  sur- 
prised to  hear  she  had  been  in  the  Gothic  temple,  but  he  was  to  see 
her  wear  so  cheerful  an  appearance.  He  was  no  stranger  to  the 
human  heart,  and  he  was  convinced  some  flattering  illusion  could 
alone  have  enabled  her  to  shake  off  the  sadness  with  which,  but 
an  hour  before,  she  had  been  oppressed.  The  sooner  such  an 
illusion  was  removed,  the  better  ; and  to  allow  her  to  see  Lord 
Mortimer,  he  imagined  would  be  the  most  effectual  measure  for 
such  a purpose. 

The  more  he  reflected  on  that  young  nobleman’s  manner,  and 
what  he  himself  had  heard  from  Lord  Cherbury,  the  more  he  was 
convinced  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  was  not  only  the  object 
destined  for  Lord  Mortimer,  but  the  one  who  now  possessed  his 
affections ; and  believed  his  visit  to  Castle  Carberry  had  been  pur- 
posely made,  to  announce  the  alteration  of  his  sentiments  by 
the  coldness  of  his  conduct,  and  check  any  hopes  which  his  appear- 
ance in  the  neighborhood  might  have  create'^.. 

He  had  hesitated  about  Amanda’s  acce’;;>ing  the  invitation  to 
the  Kilcorbans’  ball ; but  he  now  determined  she  should  go,  im- 
pressed with  the  idea  of  her  being  there  convinced  of  the  change 
in  Lord  Mortimer’s  sentiments — a conviction  he  deemed  necessary 
to  produce  one  in  her  own. 

Amanda  impatiently  longed  for  this  night,  which  she  believed 
V70uld  realize  either  her  hopes  or  fears. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


147 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A crimson  blush  her  beauteous  face  o’erspread, 

Varying  her  cheeks  by  turns  with  white  and  red ; 

The  driving  colors,  never  at  a stay. 

Run  here  and  there,  and  flush  and  fade  away  ; 

Delightful  change  ! thus  Indian  ivory  shows. 

With  which  the  bordering  paint  of  purple  glows, 

Or  lilies  damasked  by  the  neighboring  rose.— Drtden. 

The  wished-for  night  at  length  arrived,  and  Amanda  arrayed 
lierself  for  it  with  a fluttering  heart.  The  reflection  of  her  mir- 
ror did  not  depress  her  spirits  ; hope  had  increased  the  brilliancy 
of  her  eyes,  and  given  an  additional  glow  to  her  complexion. 
Ellen,  who  delighted  in  the  charms  of  her  dear  young  lady,  declared 
many  of  the  Irish  ladies  would  have  reason  to  envy  her  that  night ; 
and  Fitzalan,  when  he  entered  the  parlor,  was  struck  with  her  sur- 
passing loveliness.  He  gazed  on  her  with  a rapture  that  brought 
tears  into  his  eyes,  and  felt  a secret  pride  at  the  idea  of  the  mar- 
chioness beholding  this  sweet  descendant  of  her  neglected  sister 

Into  such  beauty  spread  and  blown  so  fair, 

Though  poverty’s  cold  wind,  and  crushing  rain, 

Beat  keen  and  heavy  on  her  tender  years. 

‘No,’ said  he  to  himself,  ‘the  titled  Euphrasia,  if  she  equals, 
cannot  at  least  surpass  my  Amanda — meekness  and  innocence 
dwell  upon  the  brow  of  my  child  ; but  the  haughty  marchioness 
will  teach  pride  to  lower  upon  Lady  Euphrasia.’ 

Amanda,  on  reaching  Orangeville,  found  the  avenue  full  of 
carriages.  The  lights  dispersed  through  the  house  gave  it  quite 
the  appearance  of  an  illumination.  It  seemed,  indeed,  the  man- 
sion of  gayety  and  splendor.  Her  knees  trembled  as  she  ascended 
the  stairs.  She  wished  for  time  to  compose  herself  but  the  door 
opened,  her  name  was  announced,  and  Mrs.  Kilcorban  came  for- 
ward to  receive  her.  The  room,  though  spacious,  was  extremely 
crowded.  It  was  decorated  in  a fanciful  manner  with  festoons  of 
flowers,  intermingled  with  variegated  lamps.  Immediately  over 
the  entrance  was  the  orchestra,  and  opposite  to  it  sat  the  mar- 
chioness and  her  party.  The  heart  of  Amanda  beat,  if  possible, 
with  increased  quickness  on  the  approach  of  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  and 
her  voice  was  lost  in  her  emotions.  Recollecting,  however,  that 
the  scrutinizing  eyes  of  Lord  Mortimer,  and  her  imperious  rela- 
tions, were  now  on  her,  she  almost  immediately  recovered  compos- 
ure, and  with  her  usual  elegance  walked  up  the  room.  Most  of 
the  company  were  strangers  to  her,  and  she  heard  a general  buzz 
of  ‘ Who  is  she  ? ’ accompanied  with  expressions  of  admiration 
from  the  gentlemen,  among  whom  were  the  officers  of  a garrison 
town  near  Grangeville.  Confused  by  the  notice  she  attracted. 


148 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


she  hastened  to  the  first  seat  she  found  vacant,  which  was  neai 
the  marchioness. 

Universal,  indeed,  was  the  admiration  she  had  excited  among 
the  male  part  of  the  company  by  her  beauty,  unaffected  graces, 
and  simplicity  of  dress. 

She  wore  a robe  of  plain  white  lutestring,  and  a crape  turban, 
ornamented  with  a plume  of  drooping  feathers.  She  had  no  ap- 
pearance of  finery,  except  a chain  of  pearls  about  her  bosom, 
from  which  hung  her  mother’s  picture,  and  a light  wreath  of 
embroidered  laurel,  intermingled  with  silver  blossoms,  round  her 
petticoat.  Her  hair,  in  its  own  native  and  glossy  hue,  floated 
on  her  shoulders,  and  partly  shaded  a cheek  where  the  purity  of 
the  lily  was  tinted  with  the  softest  bloom  of  the  rose.  On  gain- 
ing a seat,  her  confusion  subsided.  She  looked  up,  and  the  flrst 
eyes  she  met  were  those  of  Lord  Mortimer  (who  leaned  on  Lady 
Euphrasia  Sutherland’s  chair),  fastened  on  her  face  with  a scrut- 
inizing earnestness,  as  if  he  wished  to  penetrate  the  recesses  of 
her  heart,  and  discover  whether  he  yet  retained  a place  in  it.  She 
blushed,  and  looking  from  him  perceived  she  was  an  object  of 
critical  attention  to  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia.  There 
was  a malignant  expression  in  their  countenances  which  abso- 
lutely shocked  her  ; and  she  felt  a sensation  of  horror  at  beholding 
the  former,  who  had  so  largely  contributed  to  the  sorrows  of  her 
mother.  ‘ Can  it  be  possible,’  said  Lady  Euphrasia,  replying  to 
a young  and  elegant  officer  who  stood  by  her,  in  a tone  of  affecta- 
tion, and  with  a impertinent  sneer,  ‘ that  you  think  her  hand- 
some ?’  ‘ Handsome,’  exclaimed  he  with  warmth,  as  if  involun- 
tarily repeating  her  ladyship’s  words,  ‘ I think  her  bewitchingly 
irresistible.  They  told  me  I was  coming  to  the  land  of  saints  ; 
but,’  glancing  his  sparkling  eyes  around,  and  fixing  them  on 
Amanda,  ‘ I find  it  is  the  land  of  goddesses.’ 

The  marchioness  haughtily  frowned — Lady  Euphrasia  smiled 
satirically,  tossed  her  head,  and  played  with  her  fan.  The  pro- 
pensities to  envy  and  ill-nature,  which  the  marchioness  had  shown 
in  her  youth,  were  not  less  visible  in  age.  As  they  were  then  ex- 
cited on  her  own  account,  so  were  they  now  on  her  daughter’s. 
To  engross  praise  and  admiration  for  her,  she  wished  beauty 
blasted  and  merit  extirpated ; nor  did  she  ever  fail,  when  in  her 
power,  to  depreciate  one,  and  cast  an  invidious  cloud  of  calumny 
over  the  other.  She  beheld  Amanda  with  envy  and  hatred. 
Notwithstanding  her  partiality  to  her  daughfer,  she  could  not 
avoid  seeing  her  vast  inferiority,  in  point  of  personal  charms, to  her 
young  relation.  True,  Lady  Euphrasia  possessed  a fortune,  which 
would  always  insure  her  attention ; but  it  was  that  unimpassioned 
and  studied  attention  selflsliness  dictates,  the  mere  tribute  of  flab 
tery . How  different  from  the  spontaneous  attention  which  Aman 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  149 

da  excited,  who,  though  portionless  and  untitled,  was  beheld  with 
admiration,  followed  with  praise,  and  courted  with  assiduity ! 

Lady  Euphrasia’s  mind  was  the  counterpart  of  her  mother’s  ; 
but  in  figure  she  resembled  her  father.  Her  stature  was  low,  her 
features  contracted,  and  though  of  the  same  age  as  Amanda,  their 
harsh  expression  made  her  appear  much  older.  Though  blessed 
with  the  abundant  gifts  of  fortune,  she  was  unhap p3%  if,  from  any- 
one’s manner,  she  conceived  that  he  thought  nature  had  not 
been  quite  so  liberal  to  her.  In  the  domestic  circle  constant  fiat- 
tery  kept  her  in  good-humor ; but  when  out  she  was  frequently 
chagrined  at  seeing  women,  infinitely  below  her  in  rank  and  for- 
tune, ^more  noticed  than  herself. 

At  the  ball  she  supposed  she  should  have  appeared  as  little  less, 
at  least,  than  a demi-goddess.  Art  and  fashion  were  exhausted  in 
adorning  her,  and  she  entered  the  room  with  all  the  insolence  of 
conscious  rank  and  afPectation  of  beauty.  As  she  walked  she  ap- 
peared scarcely  able  to  support  her  delicate  frame,  and  her  lan- 
guishing eyes  were  half  closed.  She  could,  however,  see  there 
was  a number"  of  pretty  women  present,  and  felt  disconcerted. 
The  respect,  however,  which  she  was  paid,  a little  revived  her ; 
and  having  contrived  to  detain  Lord  Mortimer  by  her  chair  and 
3ir  Charles  Bingley,  the  young  oflicer  already  mentioned,  who 
was  colonel  of  a regiment  quartered  in  an  adjacent  town,  she  soon 
felt  her  spirits  uncommonly  exhilarated  by  the  attentions  of  two 
of  the  most  elegant  men  in  the  room  ; and  like  a proud  sultana 
in  the  midst  of  her  slaves,  was  enjoying  the  compliments  she  ex- 
torted from  them  by  her  prefatory  speeches,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Amanda,  like  an  angel  of  light,  appeared  to  dissolve  the  mists 
of  vanity  and  self-importance.  Lord  Mortimer  was  silent,  but  his 
speaking  eyes  confessed  his  feelings.  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  who 
had  no  secret  motive  to  conceal  his,  openly  avowed  his  admira- 
tion, to  which  Lady  Euphrasia  replied  as  has  been  already 
mentioned. 

All  the  rapture  Sir  Charles  expressed  Lord  Mortimer  felt.  His 
soul  seemed  on  the  wing  to  fly  to  Amanda — to  utter  its  feelings — • 
to  discover  hers  and  chide  her  for  her  conduct.  This  first  emotion 
of  tenderness,  however,  quickly  subsided,  on  recollecting  what 
that  conduct  had  been — how  cruelly,  how  ungratefully  she  had 
used  him.  Fled  in  the  very  moment  of  hope  and  expectation, 
leaving  him  a prey  to  distrust,  anxiety,  and  reg'^et,  he  dreaded 
6ome  fatal  mystery — some  improper  attachment  (experience  had 
rendered  him  suspicious),  which  neither  she  nor  her  father  could 
avow  ; for  never  did  he  imagine  that  the  scrupulous  delicacy  of 
Fitzalan  alone  had  effected  their  separation.  He  still  adored 
Amanda  ; he  neither  could  nor  desired  to  drive  her  from  his 
thoughts,  except  well  assured  she  was  unworthy  of  being  harbored 


150 


THB  CHILDBBN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


in  them,  and  felt  unutterable  impatience  to  have  her  mysterious 
conduct  explained.  From  Tudor  Hall  he  had  repaired  to  London, 
restless  and  unhappy.  Soon  after  his  arrival  there,  the  marquis 
proposed  his  accompanying  him  to  Ireland.  This  he  declined, 
having  reason  to  think  Lord  Cherbury  meditated  an  alliance  for 
him  with  his  family.  The  earl  expressed  regret  at  his  refusal. 
He  said  he  wished  he  would  join  the  marquis’s  party,  as  he  wanted 
his  opinion  relative  to  the  state  of  Castle  Carberry,  where  a man 
of  integrity  then  resided,  who  would  have  any  alterations  or 
repairs  he  might  think  necessary  executed  in  the  most  eligible 
manner.  He  mentioned  the  name  of  Fitzalan.  Lord  Mortimer 
was  surprised  and  agitated.  He  concealed  his  emotions,  however, 
and  with  apparent  carelessness  asked  a few  questions  about  him, 
and  found  that  he  was  indeed  the  father  of  Amanda.  She  was 
not  mentioned,  nor  did  he  dare  to  inquire  concerning  her  ; but  he 
immediately  declared  that,  since  his  father  wished  it  so  much,  he 
would  accompany  the  marquis.  This  was  extremely  pleasing  to 
that  nobleman,  and  he  and  Lord  Cherbury  had  in  reality  agreed 
upon  a union  between  him  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  meant  soon 
openly  to  avow  their  intention.  Lord  Mortimer  suspected,  and 
Lady  Euphrasia  was  already  apprised  of  it ; and,  from  vanity,  was 
pleased  at  the  idea  of  being  connected  with  a man  so  universally 
admired.  Love  was  out  of  the  question,  for  she  had  not  suflScient 
sensibility  to  experience  it. 

He,  cautious  of  creating  hopes  which  he  never  meant  to  realize, 
treated  her  only  with  the  attention  which  common  politeness  de- 
manded, and  on  every  occasion  seemed  to  prefer  the  marchioness’s 
conversation  to  hers,  intending  by  this  conduct  to  crush  the  pro- 
jected scheme  in  embryo,  and  spare  himself  the  mortification  of 
openly  rejecting  it.  Had  his  heart  even  been  disengaged.  Lady 
Euphrasia  could  never  have  been  his  choice.  If  Amanda  in 
reality  proved  as  amiable  as  he  had  once  reason  to  believe  her,  he 
considered  himself  bound,  by  every  tie  of  honor  as  well  as  love, 
to  fulfill  the  engagement  he  had  entered  into  with  her.  He  re- 
solved, however,  to  resist  every  plea  of  tenderness  in  her  favor, 
except  he  was  thoroughly  convinced  she  still  deserved  it.  He 
went  to  Castle  Car  berry  purposely  to  make  a display  of  indifPer- 
ence,  and  prevent  any  ideas  being  entertained  of  his  having  fol- 
lowed her  to  Ireland.  He  deemed  himself  justifiable  in  touching 
her  sensibility  (if,  indeed,  she  possessed  any  for  him)  by  an  ap- 
pearance of  coldness  and  inattention  ; but  determined,  after  a 
little  retaliation  of  this  kind  on  her,  for  the  pain  she  had  made 
him  endure,  to  come  to  an  explanation,  and  be  guided  by  its  re- 
sult relative  to  his  conduct  in  future  to  her. 

The  character  of  a,  perfect  stranger  was  the  one  he  was  to 
support  throughout  the  evening  ; but  her  loveliness,  and  the  gah 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


151 


lantry  of  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  tempted  him  a thousand  times  to 
break  through  the  restraint  he  had  imposed  on  himself. 

The  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  were  not  the  only  per 
sons  displeased  by  the  charms  of  Amanda.  The  Miss  Kilcorbans 
saw,  with  evident  mortification,  the  admiration  she  excited, 
which  they  had  flattered  themselves  with  chiefly  engrossing  ; their 
disappointment  was  doubly  severe  after  the  pain,  trouble,  and  ex- 
pense they  had  undergone  in  ornamenting  their  persons  ; after 
the  suggestions  of  their  vanity,  and  the  flattering  encomiums  of 
their  mamma,  who  presided  herself  at  their  toilet,  every  moment 
exclaiming,  ‘Well,  well,  heaven  help  the  men  to-night,  girls  !’ 

They  fluttered  across  the  room  to  Amanda,  sweeping  at  least 
two  yards  of  painted  tiffany  after  them  ; assured  her  they  were 
extremely  glad  to  see  her,  but  were  afraid  she  was  unwell,  as  she 
never  looked  so  iU.  Amanda  assured  them  she  was  conscious  of 
no  indisposition,  and  the  harmony  of  her  features  remained  un- 
disturbed. Miss  Kilcorban,  in  a half- whisper,  declared  the  mar- 
chioness had  never  smiled  since  she  had  entered  the  room,  and 
feared  her  mamma  had  committed  a great  mistake  in  inviting 
them  together.  The  rudeness  of  this  speech  shocked  Amanda. 
An  indignant  swell  heaved  her  bosom,  and  she  was  about  replying 
to  it  as  it  deserved,  when  Miss  Alicia  stopped  her  by  protesting 
she  believed  Lord  Mortimer  dying  for  Lady  Euphrasia.  Amanda 
involuntarily  raised  her  eyes  at  this  speech  ; but,  instead  of  Lord 
Mortimer,  beheld  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  who  was  standing  behind 
the  young  ladies.  ‘Am  I pardonable,’ cried  he,  smiling,  ‘for 
disturbing  so  charming  a trio  ? but  a soldier  is  taught  never  to 
neglect  a good  opportunity  ; and  one  so  propitious  as  the  present 
for  the  wish  of  my  heart  might  not  again  offer.’  The  Miss  Kil- 
corbans bridled  up  at  this  speech  ; plied  their  fans  and  smiled 
most  graciously  on  him,  certainly  concluding  he  meant  to  engage 
one  or  other  for  the  first  set.  Passing  gently  between  them,  he 
bowed  gracefully  to  Amanda,  and  requested  the  honor  of  her 
hand.  She  gave  an  assenting  smile,  and  he  seated  himself  beside 
her  till  the  dancing  commenced.  The  sisters  cast  a malignant 
glance  over  them,  and  swam  off  with  a contemptuous  indifference. 

Lady  Euphrasia  had  expected  Sir  Charles  and  Lord  Mortimer 
would  have  been  competitors  for  her  hand,  and  was  infinitely  pro- 
voked by  the  desertion  of  the  former  to  her  lovely  cousin.  He 
was  a fashionable  and  animated  young  man,  whom  she  had  often 
honored  with  her  notice  in  England,  and  wished  to  enlist  in  the 
train  of  her  supposed  adorers.  Lord  Mortimer  could  scarcely  re- 
store her  good-humor  by  engaging  her.  Almost  immediately 
after  him,  young  Kilcorban  advanced  for  the  same  purpose,  and 
Lord  Mortimer  sincerely  regretted  he  had  been  beforehand  with 
him.  The  little  fop  was  quite  chagrined  at  finding  her  ladyship 


152 


THE  CHILDKEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


engaged  ; but  entreated  the  next  set  he  might  have  the  supreme 
honor  and  ecstatic  felicity  of  her  hand.  This,  with  the  most  im- 
pertinent affectation,  she  promised,  if  able  to  endure  the  fatigue 
of  another  dance. 

Amanda  was  next  couple  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  endeavored 
therefore  to  calm  her  spirits,  which  the  rudeness  of  Miss  Kilcorban 
had  discomposed,  and  attend  to  the  lively  conversation  of  Sir 
Charles,  who  was  extremely  pleasing  and  entertaining.  Lord 
Mortimer  watched  them  with  jealous  attention.  His  wandering 
glances  were  soon  noticed  by  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  her  frowns  and 
sarcastic  speeches  evinced  her  displeasure  at  them.  He  tried  to 
recollect  himself  and  act  as  politeness  required.  She,  not  satisfied 
with  fixing  his  attention,  endeavored  to  attract  Sir  Charles’s.  She 
spoke  to  him  across  Amanda ; but  all  her  efforts  were  here  ineffect- 
ual. He  spoke  and  laughed  with  her  ladyship,  but  his  eyes  could 
not  be  withdrawn  from  the  angelic  countenance  of  his  partner. 
Amanda’s  hand  trembled  as,  in  turning,  she  presented  it  to  Lord 
Mortimer ; but,  though  he  extended  his,  he  did  not  touch  it.  There 
wsts  a slight  in  this  which  pierced  Amanda’s  heart.  She  sighed, 
unconscious  of  doing  so  herself.  Not  so  Sir  Charles.  He  asked 
her,  smiling,  to  where,  or  whom,  that  sigh  was  wafted.  This 
made  Amanda  recall  her  wandering  thoughts.  She  assumed  an 
air  of  sprightliness,  and  went  down  the  dance  with  much  anima- 
tion. When  finished.  Sir  Charles  led  her  to  a seat  near  the  one 
Lady  Euphrasia  and  Lord  Mortimer  occupied.  She  saw  the  eyes 
of  his  lordship  often  directed  toward  her,  and  her  heart  fluttered 
at  the  pleasing  probability  of  being  asked  to  dance  by  him.  Sir 
Charles  regretted  that  the  old-fashioned  custom  of  not  changing 
partners  was  over,  and  declared  he  could  not  leave  her  till  she  had 
promised  him  her  hand  for  the  third  set.  This  she  could  not  refuse, 
and  he  left  her  with  reluctance,  as  the  gentlemen  were  again  stand- 
ing up,  to  seek  a partner.  At  the  same  moment  Lord  Mortimer 
quitted  Lady  Euphrasia.  Oh ! how  the  bosom  of  Amanda  throbbed 
when  she  saw  him  approach  and  look  at  her.  He  paused.  A 
faintishness  came  over  her.  He  cast  another  glance  on  her,  ‘and 
passed  on.  Her  eye  followed  him,  and  she  saw  him  take  out  Miss 
Kilcorban.  This,  indeed,  was  a disappointment.  Propriety,  she 
thought,  demanded  his  dancing  the  first  set  with  Lady  Euphrasia, 
but,  if  not  totally  indifferent,  surely  he  would  not  have  neglected 
engaging  her  for  the  second,  ‘ Yes,’  said  she  to  herself,  ‘ he  has 
totally  forgotten  me.  Lady  Euphrasia  is  now  the  object,  and  he 
only  pays  attention  to  those  who  can  contribute  to  her  amusement.’ 
Several  gentlemen  endeavored  to  prevail  on  her  to  dance,  but  she 
pleaded  fatigue,  and  sat  solitary  in  a window,  apparently  regard- 
ing the  gay  assembly,  but  in  reality  too  much  engrossed  by  painful 
thoughts  to  do  so.  The  wOods,  silvered  by  the  beams  of  the  moon, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


153 


recalled  the  venerable  shades  of  Tudor  Hall  to  memory,  where 
«he  had  so  often  rambled  by  the  same  pale  beams,  and  heard  vows 
of  unchangeable  regard — vows  registered  in  her  heart,  yet  now 
without  the  hope  of  having  them  fulfilled.  The  dancing  over, 
die  company  repaired  to  another  room  for  refreshments.  Aman- 
da, absorbed  in  thought,  heeded  not  their  almost  total  desertion, 
till  young  Kilcorban,  capering  up  to  her,  declared  she  looked  as 
lonesome  as  a hermit  in  his  cell,  and,  laughing  in  her  face,  turned 
off  with  a careless  impertinence.  He  had  not  noticed  her  before 
that  night.  He  was  indeed  one  of  those  little  fluttering  insects  who 
bask  in  the  rays  of  fortune,  and  court  alone  her  favorites.  Elated 
by  an  acquaintance  with  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia, 
he  particularly  neglected  Amanda,  not  only  from  deeming  them 
more  worthy  of  his  attention,  but  from  perceiving  he  could  take 
no  steps  more  certain  of  gaining  their  favor.  His  words  made 
Amanda  sensible  of  the  singularity  of  her  situation.  She  arose 
immediately,  and  went  to  the  other  room.  Every  seat  was  already 
occupied.  Near  the  door  sat  Lady  Euphrasia  and  t£e  Miss  Kil- 
corbans.  Lord  Mortimer  leaned  on  the  back  of  her  ladyship’s 
chair,  and  young  Kilcorban  occupied  one  by  her  side,  which  he 
never  attempted  offering  to  Amanda.  She  stood,  therefore,  most 
unpleasantly  by  the  door,  and  was  exceedingly  confused  at  hear- 
ing a great  many,  in  a whispering  way,  remarking  the  strangeness 
of  her  not  being  noticed  by  so  near  a relation  as  the  Marchioness 
of  Roslin.  A general  titter  at  her  situation  prevailed  among  Lady 
Euphrasia’s  party.  Lord  Mortimer  excepted.  ‘ Upon  my  word,’ 
said  young  Kilcorban,  looking  at  Amanda,  ‘ some  ladies  study 
attitudes  which  would  be  as  well  let  alone.’  ‘ For  the  study  of 
propriety,’  replied  her  ladyship,  who  appeared  to  have  unbended 
from  her  haughtiness,  ‘ she  would  do  admirably  for  the  figure  of 
Hope.’  ‘If  she  had  but  an  anchor  to  recline  on,’  rejoined  he. 
‘Yes,’  answered  her  ladyship,  ‘with  her  floating  locks  and  die-away 
glances.’  ‘ Or  else.  Patience  on  a monument,’  cried  he.  ‘ Only 
she  has  no  grief  to  smile  at,’  returned  Lady  Euphrasia,  ‘ Pardon 
me  there,’  said  he;  ‘ she  has  the  grief — not,  indeed,  that  I believe 
she  would  smile  at  it— of  being  totally  eclipsed  by  your  ladyship.' 
‘ Or,  what  do  you  think,  ’ cried  Lord  Mortimer,  whose  eyes  sparkled 
with  indignation  during  this  dialogue,  ‘ of  likening  her  to  Wisdom, 
pitying  the  follies  of  human  kind,  and  smiling  to  see  the  shafts  of 
malice  recoiling  from  the  bosom  of  innocence  and  modesty,  with 
contempt,  on  those  who  leveled  them  at  it?  ’ 

Amanda  heard  not  these  words,  which  were  delivered  in  rather 
a low  voice.  Her  heart  swelled  with  indignation  at  the  imperti- 
nence directed  to  her,  and  she  would  have  quitted  the  room  but  that 
the  passage  was  too  much  crowded  for  her  to  pass.*  Sir  Charles 
Bingley,  occupied  in  attending  the  young  lady  with  whom  he  had 


154 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


danced,  observed  not  Amanda  till  the  moment.  He  instantly  flew 
to  her.  ‘Alone — and  standing ! ’ said  he ; ‘ why  did  I not  see  you 
before? — you  look  fatigued.  ’ She  was  pale  with  emotion.  ‘ Kil- 
corban,  ’ continued  he,  ‘ I must  suppose  you  did  not  see  Miss  Fitz- 
alan,  or  your  seat  would  not  have  been  kept.  ’ Then  catching  him 
by  the  arm,  he  raised  him  nimbly  from  his  chair,  and  directly  car- 
ried it  to  Amanda;  and  having  procured  her  refreshments,  seated 
himself  at  her  feet,  exclaiming,  ‘ this  is  my  throne,  let  kings  come 
bow  to  it.’  Her  lovely  and  unaffected  graces  had  excited  Sir 
Charles’s  admiration ; but  it  was  the  neglect  with  which  he  saw  her 
treated,  diffused  such  a soothing  tenderness  through  his  manner 
as  he  now  displayed.  It  hurt  his  sensibility,  and  had  she  even 
been  plain  in  her  appearance,  would  have  rendered  her  the  pecu- 
liar object  of  his  attention.  He  detested  the  marchioness  and  her 
daughter  for  their  rancorous  envy,  as  much  as  he  despised  the  Eil- 
corbans  for  their  mean  insolence.  The  marchioness  told  him  a 
long  tale  of  tl^e  shocking  conduct  of  Amanda’s  parents,  whose  ill 
qualites  she  declared  her  looks  announced  her  to  possess,  and  en- 
deavored to  depreciate  her  in  his  favor ; but  that  was  impossible* 

‘ Lord ! ’ said  Lady  Euphrasia,  rising  as  she  spoke,  ‘ let  me  pass; 
this  scene  is  sickening.  ’ Lord  Mortimer  remained  behind  her* 
He  loitered  about  the  room,  and  his  looks  were  often  directed  to- 
ward Amanda.  Her  hopes  began  to  revive.  The  luster  rekin- 
dled in  her  eyes,  and  a soft  blush  again  stole  over  her  cheek. 
Though  engaged  to  Sir  Charles,  she  felt  she  should  be  pleased  to 
have  Lord  Mortimer  make  an  overture  for  her  hand.  The  com- 
pany were  now  returning  to  the  ballroom,  and  Sir  Charles  took 
her  hand  to  lead  her  after  them.  At  that  moment  Lord  Mortimer 
approached.  Amanda  paused  as  if  to  adjust  some  part  of  her 
dress.  He  passed  on  to  a very  beautiful  girl,  whom  he  imme- 
diately engaged,  and  led  from  the  room.  She  followed  them  with 
her  eyes,  and  continued  without  moving,  till  the  fervent  pressure 
Sir  Charles  gave  her  hand  restored  her  to  recollection. 

When  the  set  with  him  was  finished,  she  would  have  left  the 
house  directly,  had  her  servant  been  there;  but  after  putting  up 
the  horses,  he  had  returned  to  Castle  Carberry,  and  she  did  not 
expect  him  till  a very  late  hour.  She  declared  her  resolution  of 
dancing  no  more,  and  Sir  Charles  having  avowed  the  same,  they 
repaired  to  the  card  room,  as  the  least  crowded  place  they  could 
find.  Lady  Greystock  was  playing  at  the  table,  with  the  marquis 
and  marchioness.  She  beckoned  Amanda  to  h^r,  and  having  had 
no  opportunity  of  speaking  before,  expressed  her  pleasure  at  then 
seeing  her.  The  marquis  examined  her  through  his  spectacles. 
The  marchioness  frowned,  and  declared,  ‘she  would  take  care  in 
future,  to  avoid  parties  subject  to  such  disagreeable  intruders.’ 
This  speech  was  too  pointed  not  to  be  remarked.  Amanda  wished 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


153 


to  appear  undisturbed,  but  her  emotions  grew  too  powerful  to  be 
suppressed,  and  she  was  obliged  to  move  hastily  from  the  table. 
Sir  Charles  followed  her.  ‘ Cursed  malignity,’  cried  he,  endeavor- 
ing to  screen  her  from  observation,  while  tears  trinkled  down  her 
cheeks ; ‘ but,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  was  your  beauty  and  merit 
less  conspicuous,  you  would  have  escaped  it ; ’ tis  the  vice  of  little 
minds  to  hate  that  excellence  they  cannot  reach.’  ‘ It  is  cruel,  it 
is  shocking,’  said  Amanda,  ‘ to  suffer  enmity  to  outlive  the  object 
who  excited  it,  and  to  hate  the  offspring  on  account  of  the  parent — 
the  original  of  this  picture,’  and  she  looked  at  her  mother’s, 
^ merited  not  such  conduct.  ’ Sir  Charles  gazed  on  it — it  was  wet 
with  the  tears  of  Amanda.  He  wiped  them  off,  and  pressing  the 
handkerchief  to  his  lips,  put  it  in  his  bosom. 

At  this  instant  Lord  Mortimer  appeared.  He  had,  indeed,  been 
for  some  time  an  unnoticed  observer  of  the  progress  of  this  tete-a- 
tete.  As  soon  as  he  perceived  he  had  attracted  their  regard,  he 
quitted  the  room. 

‘ His  lordship  is  like  a troubled  spirit  to-night,  wandering  to 
and  fro,’  said  Sir  Charles  ; ‘I  really  believe  everything  is  not 
right  between  him  and  Lady  Euphrasia.’  ‘Something,  then,’ 
cried  Amanda,  ‘ is  in  agitation  between  him  and  her  ladyship  ? ’ 
^So  says  the  world,’  replied  Sir  Charles,  ‘but  I do  not  always 
give  implicit  credit  to  its  reports.  I have  known  Lord  Mortimer 
this  long  time  ; and  from  my  knowledge  of  him,  should  never 
have  supposed  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  a woman  capable  of 
pleasing  him  ; nay,  to  give  my  real  opinion,  I think  him  quite 
uninterested  about  her  ladyship.  I will  not  say  so  much  as  to  all 
the  other  females  present.  I really  imagined  several  times  to- 
night, from  his  glances  to  you,  he  was  on  the  point  of  requesting 
an  introduction,  which  would  not  have  pleased  me  perfectly. 
Mortimer  possesses  more  graces  than  those  which  merely  meet  the 
eye,  and  is  a rival  I should  by  no  means  like  to  have.’ 

Amanda,  confused  by  this  discourse,  endeavored  to  change  it^ 
and  at  last  succeeded.  They  conversed  pleasantly  together  on 
different  subjects,  till  they  went  to  supper,  when  Sir  Charles  still 
continued  his  attention.  Lord  Mortimer  was,  or  at  least  appeared 
to  be,  entirely  engrossed  with  Lady  Euphrasia,  who  from  time  to 
time  tittered  with  the  Miss  Kilcorbans,  and  looked  satirically  at 
Amanda.  On  quitting  the  supper-room,  she  found  her  servant 
in  the  hall,  and  immediately  desired  him  to  have  the  carriage 
drawn  up.  Sir  Charles,  who  held  her  hand,  requested  her  to  stay 
a little  longer,  yet  acknowledged  it  was  self  alone  which  dictated 
the  request,  as  he  knew  she  would  not  promote  her  own  pleasure 
by  complying  with  it.  As  he  handed  her  into  the  carriage,  he 
lold  her  he  should  soon  follow  her  example  in  retiring,  as  the 
scene,  so  lately  delightful,  in  losing  her,  would  lose  all  its  charma 


156 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


He  entreated,  and  obtained  permission,  to  wait  on  her  the  next 
morning. 

How  different  was  now  the  appearance  of  Amanda,  to  what  it 
had  been  at  her  departure  from  Castle  Carberry  ! Pale,  trem- 
bling, and  languid,  her  father  received  her  into  his  arms — for,  till 
she  returned,  he  could  not  think  of  going  to  rest — and  instantly 
guessed  the  cause  of  her  dejection.  His  heart  mourned  for  the 
pangs  inflicted  on  his  child’s.  When  she  beheld  him  gazing  on 
her  with  mingled  woe  and  tenderness,  she  tried  to  recruit  her 
spirits  ; and  after  relating  a few  particulars  of  the  ball,  answ^ered 
the  minute  inquiries  he  made  relative  to  the  conduct  of  the  mar- 
chioness and  Lady  Euphrasia.  He  appeared  unutterably  affected 
on  hearing  it.  ‘Merciful  power,’ exclaimed  he,  ‘ what  disposi- 
tions ! But  you  are  too  lovely,  too  like  your  mother,  my  Amanda^ 
in  every  perfection,  to  escape  their  malice.  Oh  ! may  it  never  in- 
jure you  as  it  did  her.  May  that  Providence,  whose  protection  I 
daily  implore  for  the  sweet  child  of  my  love,  the  source  of  earthly 
comfort,  render  every  wish,  every  scheme  which  may  be  formed 
against  her,  abortive  ; and  oh  ! may  it  yet  bless  me  with  the 
sight  of  her  happiness.’ 

Amanda  retired  to  her  chamber,  inexpressibly  affected  by  the 
language  of  her  father.  ‘ Yes,’  cried  she,  her  heart  swelling  with 
pity  and  gratitude  to  him,  ‘ my  sorrow  in  future  shall  be  concealed, 
to  avoid  exciting  his.  The  pain  inflicted  by  thy  inconstancy, 
Mortimer,  shall  be  hid  within  the  recesses  of  my  heart,  and  never 
shall  the  peace  of  my  father  be  disturbed  by  knowing  the  loss  of 
mine.’ 

The  gray  dawn  was  now  beginning  to  advance,  but  Amanda 
had  no  inclination  for  repose.  As  she  stood  at  the  window,  she 
heard  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  scene  frequently  interrupted  by 
the  distant  noise  of  carriages,  carrying  home  the  weary  sons  and 
daughters  of  dissipation.  ‘But  a few  hours  ago,’ said  she,  ‘and 
how  gay,  how  animated  was  my  soul  ; how  dull,  how  cheerless 
now ! Oh ! Mortimer,  but  a few  hours  ago,  and  I believed  myself 
the  beloved  of  thine  heart,  but  the  flattering  illusion  is  now  over, 
and  I no  longer  shall  hope,  or  thou  deceive.’  She  changed  her 
clothes,  and,  flinging  herself  on  the  bed,  from  mere  fatigue,  at 
length  fell  into  a slumber. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

Love  reigns  a very  tyrant  in  my  heart, 

Attended  on  his  throne  by  all  his  guard 

Of  furious  wishes,  fears,  and  nice  suspicions.— Otw at. 

The  next  morning  brought  Sir  Charles  Bingley  to  Castle  Car- 
berry.  Fitzalan  was  out,  but  Amanda  received  him  in  her  dress- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


157 


ing  room.  He  told  her,  with  evident  concern,  he  was  on  the 
point  of  setting  olf  for  the  metropolis,  to  embark  from  thence 
immediately  for  England,  having  received  letters  that  morning 
which  recalled  him  there.  He  regretted  that  their  intimacy,  or 
rather  friendship,  as  with  insinuating  softness  he  entreated  per- 
mission to  call  it,  was  interrupted  at  its  very  commencement —de- 
clared it  gave  him  more  pain  than  she  could  imagine,  or  he  ex- 
press—and  that  his  return  to  Ireland  would  be  expedited  for  the 
purpose  of  renewing  it,  and  requested  he  might  be  flattered  with 
an  assurance  of  not  being  totally  forgotten  during  his  absence. 
Amanda  answered  him  as  if  she  supposed  mere  politeness  had 
dictated  the  request.  Her  father,  she  said,  she  was  sure,  would 
be  happy  to  see  him,  if  he  returned  again  to  their  neighborhood. 
At  his  entrance,  he  said  he  could  stay  but  a few  minutes,  yet  he 
remained  about  two  hours,  and  when  he  arose  to  depart,  declared 
he  had  reason  to  think  the  castle  an  enchanted  one.  He  found  it 
difficult  to  get  from  it ; ‘ yet,  unlike  the  knights  of  old,’  continued 
he,  ‘ I wish  not  to  break  the  spell  which  detains  me  in  it.’ 

Day  after  day  elapsed,  and  no  Lord  Mortimer  appeared. 
Amanda,  indeed,  heard  frequently  of  him,  and  always  as  the  ad- 
mirer of  Lady  Euphrasia.  Frequently,  too,  she  heard  about  the 
family  at  Ulster  Lodge,  their  superb  entertainments,  and  those 
given  in  the  neighborhood  to  them.  The  Kilcorbans  seemed  to 
have  given  her  up  entirely.  Lady  Greystock  was  the  only  one  of 
the  family  who  continued  to  pay  her  any  attention.  She  called 
once  or  twice  at  Castle  Carberry  to  see  whether  her  apron  was 
finished,  and  tell  all  the  news  she  had  picked  up  to  Amanda. 
The  resolution  which  Amanda  had  formed  of  concealing  her  mel- 
ancholy from  her  father,  she  supported  tolerably  well,  but  she 
only  indulged  it  more  freely  in  solitude.  The  idea  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer’s union  with  Lady  Euphrasia  haunted  her  imagination  and 
embittered  every  moment.  ‘ Yes,’  she  would  exclaim  (as  she 
wandered  through  the  garden,  which  had  been  converted  from  a 
rude  wilderness  into  a scene  of  beauty  by  her  superintending 
care),  ‘ I have  planted  flowers,  but  another  shall  enjoy  their  sweets. 
I have  planted  roses  for  Mortimer  to  strew  in  the  path  of  Lady  Eu- 
phrasia— I have  adorned  the  landscape,  and  she  shall  enjoy  ita 
beauty  ! ’ 

About  three  weeks  after  the  ball,  as  she  sat  at  work  one  morn 
ing  in  the  dressing  room,  beguiling  her  thoughts  with  a little 
plaintive  song,  she  heard  the  door  softly  open  behind  her ; 
she  supposed  it  to  be  Ellen  ; but  not  finding  anyone  advance, 
turned  round  and  perceived  not  Ellen  indeed,  but  Lord  Mortimer 
himself.  She  started  from  her  chair — the  work  dropped  from 
her  hands,  and  she  had  power  neither  to  speak  nor  move. 

‘ I fear  I have  surprised  and  alarmed  you,’  said  Lord  Mortimer, 


158 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


*I  ask  pardon  for  my  intrusion,  but  I was  informed  I should  find 
Mr.  Fitzalan  here.’ 

‘ He  is  in  the  study,  I believe,  my  lord,’  replied  Amanda  coolly, 
and  with  restored  composure.  ‘ I will  go  and  inform  him  your 
lordship  wishes  to  see  him.’ 

‘No,’ exclaimed  he,  ‘I  will  not  suffer  you  to  have  so  much 
trouble  : my  business  is  not  so  urgent  as  to  require  my  seeing  him 
immediately.*  He  reseated  Amanda,  and  drew  a chair  near  her. 

She  pretended  to  be  busy  with  her  work,  whilst  the  eyes  of 
Lord  Mortimer  were  cast  round  the  room,  as  if  viewing  well- 
known  objects,  which  at  once  pleased  and  pained  his  sensibility, 
by  awakening  the  memory  of  past  delightful  days.  ‘ This  room,' 
said  he,  softly  sighing,  ‘I  well  remember;  it  was  the  favorite  re- 
tirement of  one  of  the  most  amiable  of  women.* 

‘ So  I have  heard, * replied  Amanda;  ‘ the  virtues  of  Lady  Cher* 
bury  are  remembered  with  the  truest  gratitude  by  many  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  castle.’ 

‘ I think,  * cried  Lord  Mortimer,  gazing  upon  Amanda  with  the 
softest  tenderness,  ‘ the  apartment  is  still  occupied  by  a kindred 
spirit.  * 

Amanda*s  eyes  were  instantly  bent  on  the  ground,  and  a gentle 
sigh  heaved  her  bosom ; but  it  was  rather  the  sigh  of  regret  than 
pleasure ; with  such  an  accent  as  this  Lord  Mortimer  was  wont 
to  address  her  at  Tudor  Hall,  but  she  had  now  reason  to  think  it 
only  assumed,  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  whether  she  yet  re- 
tained any  sensibility  for  him.  Had  he  not  treated  her  with  the 
most  pointed  neglect?  was  he  not  the  declared  admirer  of  Lady 
Euphrasia  ? had  he  not  confessed,  on  entering  the  room,  he  came 
to  seek  not  her,  but  her  father  ? These  ideas  rushing  through 
her  mind,  determined  her  to  continue  no  longer  with  him  ; deli- 
cacy, as  well  as  pride,  urged  her  to  this,  for  she  feared,  if  she 
longer  listened  to  his  insinuating  language,  it  might  lead  her  to 
betray  the  feelings  of  her  heart  ; she  therefore  arose,  and  said  she 
would  acquaint  her  father  his  lordship  waited  for  him. 

‘Cold,  insensible  Amanda,’  cried  he,  snatching  her  hand,  to 
prevent  her  departing,  ‘ is  it  thus  you  leave  me  ? when  we  parted 
in  Wales,  I could  not  have  believed  we  should  ever  have  had 
such  a meeting  as  this.’ 

‘Perhaps  not,  my  lord,’  replied  she,  somewhat  haughtily,  ‘ but 
we  have  both  thought  more  prudently  since  that  period.’ 

‘Then  why,’  said  he,  ‘did  not  prudence  teach  you  to  shun  a 
conduct  which  could  create  suspicion  ? ’ 

‘Suspicion,  my  lord  ! ’ repeated  Amanda,  with  a kind  of  horror 
in  her  look. 

‘Pardon  me,*  cried  he,  ‘the  word  is  disagreeable;  but.  Miss 
Pitzalan,  when  you  reflect  on  the  manner  in  which  you  have 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


169 


tcted  to  me  ; — your  precipitate,  your  clandestine  departure,  at  the 
very  period  when  a mutual  acknowledgment  of  reciprocal  feel- 
ings should  have  been  attended  with  the  most  explicit  candor  on 
both  sides,  you  cannot  wonder  at  unpleasant  conjectures  anu  toiv 
menting  doubts  obtruding  on  my  mind.’ 

‘Is  it  possible,  my  lord,’  said  Amanda,  ‘ you  never  conceived 
the  reason  of  my  departure  ? Is  it  possible  reflection  never  pointed 
it  out  ? ’ 

‘ Never,  I solemnly  assure  you  ; nor  shall  I be  happy  till  I know 
it.’  He  paused,  as  if  for  a reply  ; but  Amanda,  agitated  by  his 
words,  had  not  power  to  speak.  While  he  stood  silent,  trem- 
bling, and  apparently  embarrassed,  she  heard  her  father’s  voice,  as 
he  ascended  the  stairs.  This  instantly  restored  hers.  ‘ I must  go^ 
my  lord,’  cried  she,  starting,  and  struggling  to  withdraw  her  hand* 
‘Promise  then  to  meet  me,’ he  said ‘this  evening  at  St.  Cath- 
erine’s, by  seven,  or  I will  not  let  you  go.  My  soul  will  be  in 
tortures  till  I have  your  actions  explained.’  ‘I  do  promise,’  said 
Amanda.  Lord  Mortimer  released  her,  and  she  retired  into  her 
chamber  just  time  enough  to  avoid  her  father. 

Again  her  hopes  began  to  revive.  Again  she  believed  she  wa^ 
not  mistaken  in  supposing  Lord  Mortimer  had  come  into  Ireland 
on  her  account.  His  being  mentioned  as  the  admirer  of  Lady 
Euphrasia,  she  supposed  owing  to  his  being  a resident  in  the  house 
with  her.  About  h^self,  had  he  been  indifferent,  he  never  could 
have  betrayed  such  emotions.  His  looks,  as  well  as  language, 
expressed  the  feelings  of  a heart  tenderly  attached  and  truly  dis- 
tressed. Lest  any  circumstance  had  happened,  which  would  pre- 
vent a renewal  of  that  attachment,  she  felt  as  much  impatience 
as  he  manifested,  to  give  the  desired  explanation  of  her  conduct. 

His  lordship  was  scarcely  gone,  ere  Lady  Greystock  made  her 
appearance.  Amanda  supposed,  as  usual,  she  only  came  to  pay 
a flying  visit : how  great  then  was  her  mortiflcation  and  surprise, 
when  her  ladyship  told  her  she  was  come  to  spend  the  day  quite 
in  the  family  way  with  her,  as  the  ladies  of  Grangeville  were  so 
busy  preparing  for  a splendid  entertainment  they  were  to  be  at. 
the  ensuing  day,  that  they  had  excluded  all  visitors,  and  rendered 
the  house  quite  disagreeable. 

Amanda  endeavored  to  appear  pleased,  but  to  converse  she  found 
almost  impossible,  her  thoughts  were  so  engrossed  by  an  absent 
object.  Happily  her  ladyship  was  so  very  loquacious  herself,  as 
at  all  times  to  require  a listener  more  than  a speaker.  She  was, 
therefore,  well  satisfled  with  the  taciturnity  of  her  fair  companion. 

Amanda  tried  to  derive  some  comfort  from  the  hope  that  her 
ladyship  would  depart  early  in  the  evening,  to  which  she  flattered 
herself  she  would  be  induced  by  the  idea  of  a comfortable  whist 
party  at  home.  But  six  o’clock  struck,  and  she  manifested  no 


160 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY- 


inclination  to  move.  Amanda  was  in  agony.  Her  cheek  was 
flushed  with  agitation.  She  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  to 
conceal  her  emotion,  whilst  her  father  and  Lady  Greystock  were 
conversing.  The  former  at  last  said  he  had  some  letters  to  write, 
and  begged  her  ladyship  to  excuse  his  absence  for  a few  minutes. 

This  she  most  graciously  promised  to  do,  and  pulling  out  her 
knitting,  requested  Amanda  to  read  to  her  till  tea-time.  Amanda 
took  up  a book,  but  was  so  confused,  she  scarcely  knew  what,  or 
how  she  read. 

‘Softly,  softly,  my  dear  child,’  at  last  exclaimed  her  ladyship, 
whose  attention  could  by  no  means  keep  pace  with  the  rapid  man- 
ner in  which  she  read.  ‘I  protest  you  post  on  with  as  much  ex- 
pedition as  my  Lady  Blerner’s  ponies  on  the  circular.’  Amanda 
blushed,  and  began  to  read  slowly  ; but  when  the  clock  struck 
'Seven  her  feelings  could  be  no  longer  repressed.  ‘ Good  heavens ! ’ 
cried  she,  letting  the  book  drop  from  her  hand,  and  starting  from 
her  chair,  ‘ this  is  too  much.’  ‘ Bless  me ! my  dear ! ’ said  Lady 
Greystock,  staring  at  her,  ‘ what  is  the  matter  ? ’ ‘ Only  a slight 
headache,  madam,’  answered  Amanda,  continuing  to  walk  about 
the  room. 

Her  busy  fancy  represented  Lord  Mortimer,  now  impatiently 
waiting  for  her — thinking  in  every  sound  which  echoed  among 
the  desolate  ruins  of  St.  Catherine’s  he  heard  her  footsteps  ; his 
soul  melting  with  tenderness  at  the  idea  of  a perfect  reconciliation, 
which  an  unsatisfied  doubt  only  retarded.  What  would  he  infer 
from  her  not  keeping  an  appointment  so  ardently  desired,  so 
solemnly  promised,  but  that  she  was  unable  to  remove  that  doubt 
to  his  satisfaction.  Perhaps  he  would  not  credit  the  reason  she 
could  assign  for  breaking  her  engagement.  Perhaps  piqued  at 
her  doing  so,  he  would  not  afford  her  an  opportunity  of  accounting 
for  it,  or  the  apparent  mystery  of  her  late  conduct.  To  retain  his 
doubts  would  be  to  lose  his  tenderness,  and,  at  last,  perhaps,  expel 
har  from  his  heart.  She  thought  of  sending  Ellen  to  acquaint 
him  with  the  occasion  of  her  detention  at  home,  but  this  idea 
existed  but  for  a moment.  An  appointment  she  concealed  from 
her  father  she  could  not  bear  to  divulge  to  any  other  person  ; it 
would  be  a breach  of  duty  and  delicacy,  she  thought.  ‘ No,’  said 
she  to  herself,  ‘ I will  not,  from  the  thoughtlessness  and  impetuos- 
ity which  lead  so  many  of  my  sex  astray,  overstep  the  bounds  of 
propriety,  and  to  reinstate  myself  in  the  esteem  of  one  person  lose 
that  of  others ; and,  above  all,  that  of  my  own  heart.  If  Lord  Mor- 
timer refuses  to  hear  my  justification,  he  will  act  agreeably  neither 
to  candor  nor  justice,  and  pride  must  aid  in  repelling  my  regret.’ 

‘You  look  strangely,  indeed,  my  dear,’ said  Lady  Greystock, 
who  was  attentively  watching  her,  while  those  ideas  were  rising 
in  her  mind.  Amanda  recollected  the  remarks  which  might  be 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


161 


made  on  her  behavior  ; and  apologizing  for  the  manner  in  which 
she  had  acted,  took  her  seat  with  some  degree  of  composure. 
Fitzalan  soon  after  entered  the  room,  and  tea  was  made  ; when 
over.  Lady  Grey  stock  declared  they  were  a snug  party  for  three- 
handed  whist.  Amanda  would  gladly  have  excused  herself  from 
being  of  the  party,  but  politeness  made  her  conceal  her  reluctance 
but  her  extreme  dejection  was  noticed  both  by  Fitzalan  and  her 
ladyship.  The  latter  imputed  it  to  regret  at  not  being  permitted 
by  her  father  to  accept  an  invitation  she  had  received  for  a ball 
the  ensuing  evening. 

‘Don’t  fret  about  it,  my  dear  creature,’  said  she,  laying  down 
her  cards,  to  administer  the  consolation  she  supposed  Amanda  re- 
quired ; ‘ ’ tis  not  by  frequenting  balls  and  public  places  a girl  al- 
ways stands  the  best  chance  of  being  provided  for  ; I,  for  my 
part,  have  been  married  three  times,  yet  never  made  a conquest 
of  any  one  of  my  husbands  in  a public  place.  No,  it  was  the 
privacy  of  my  life  partly  obtained  for  me  so  many  proofs  of  good 
fortune.’  Fitzalan  and  Amanda  laughed. 

‘I  shall  never  be  dissatisfied  with  staying  at  home,’  said  the 
latter,  ‘ though  without  either  expecting  or  desiring  to  have  my 
retirement  recompensed  as  your  ladyship’s  was.’  ‘One  prize 
will  satisfy  you  then,  ’ said  Fitzalan.  ‘ Ah ! ’ cried  Lady  Greystock, 

‘ it  is  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  will  obtain  the  capital  one.  I 
don’t  know  where  such  another  young  man  as  Lord  Mortimer  is 
to  be  found.’  ‘Then  your  ladyship  supposes,’  said  Fitzalan, 

‘ there  is  some  truth  in  the  reports  circulated  relative  to  him  and 
Lady  Euphrasia.’  ‘ I assure  you  there  is,’  said  she  ; ‘ and  I think 
the  connection  will  be  a very  eligible  one.  Their  births,  their  for- 
tunes, are  equal,’  But  ah,  thought  Amanda,  how  unlike  their 
dispositions.  ‘ I dare  say,’  proceeded  her  ladyship,  ‘ Lady  Euphra^ 
sia  will  have  changed  her  title  before  this  time  next  year.’ 

Fitzalan  glanced  at  Amanda  ; her  face  was  deadly  pale,  and 
she  put  him  and  Lady  Greystock  out  in  the  game  by  the  errors 
she  committed.  At  last  the  carriage  from  Grangeville  arrived,, 
and  broke  up  a party  Amanda  could  not  much  longer  have  sup- 
ported. Her  father  perceived  the  painful  efforts  she  made  to  con- 
ceal her  distress.  He  pitied  her  from  his  soul,  and,  pretending 
to  think  she  was  only  indisposed,  entreated  her  to  retire  to  her 
chamber.  Amanda  gladly  complied  with  this  entreaty,  and  be- 
gan to  meditate  on  what  Lady  Greystock  had  said.  Was  there 
not  a probability  of  its  being  true  ? Might  not  the  indifference 
Lord  Mortimer  had  manifested  on  his  first  arrival  in  the  neighbor- 
hood have  really  originated  from  a change  of  affections  ? Might 
not  the  tenderness  he  displayed  in  the  morning  have  been  con- 
certed with  the  hope  of  its  inducing  her  to  gratify  his  curiosity,  by 
relating  the  reason  of  her  journey  from  Wales,  or  please  his  vanf 


162 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


aty  by  tempting  her  to  give  some  proof  of  attachment?  But  she 
soon  receded  from  this  idea.  Lady  Greystock  was  not  infallible 
in  her  judgment.  Eeports  of  approaching  nuptials,  Amanda 
knew,  had  often  been  raised  without  any  foundation  for  them, 
The  present  report,  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lady  Euphrasia, 
might  be  one  of  that  nature.  She  could  not  believe  him  so  egre- 
giously  vain,  or  so  deliberately  base,  as  to  counterfeit  tenderness 
merely  for  the  purpose  of  having  his  curiosity  or  vanity  gratified. 
She  felt,  however,  truly  unhappy,  and  could  derive  no  con- 
solation but  from  the  hope  that  her  suspense,  at  least,  would  soon 
be  terminated. 

She  passed  a restless  night  ; nor  was  her  morning  more  com- 
posed. She  could  not  settle  to  any  of  her  usual  avocations. 
Every  step  she  heard,  she  started  in  expectation  of  instantly  seeing 
Lord  Mortimer  ; but  he  did  not  appear.  After  dinner  she  walked 
out  alone,  and  took  the  road  to  St.  Catherine’s.  When  she  reached 
the  ruins,  she  felt  fatigued,  and  sat  down  upon  a fiag  in  the  chapel 
to  rest  herself.  ‘ Here,  ’ said  she,  pensively  leaning  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  ‘ Mortimer  waited  for  me  ; perhaps  with  tender  impa- 
tience. Here,  too,  he  perhaps  accused  me  of  neglect,  or  deceit.’ 
She  heard  a rustling  behind  her,  and  turning  perceived  Sister 
Mary. 

‘You  are  welcome,  my  dear  soul,’  cried  the  good-natured  nun, 
running  forward,  and  sitting  down  by  her  ; ‘ but  why  did  you  not 
come  in  to  see  us  ? ’ continued  she,  affectionately  kissing  her. 
Amanda  said,  ‘such  was  her  intention,  but  feeling  a little  indis- 
posed, she  had  remained  in  the  air,  in  hopes  of  growing  better.’ 

‘ O Jesu ! ’ cried  the  sister,  ‘you  do  indeed  look  ill.  I must  go 
and  get  you  a cordial  from  our  prioress,  who  is  quite  a doctress, 
I assure  you.’ 

Amanda  caught  her  gown,  as  she  was  running  away,  and  assured 
her  she  was  better. 

‘ Well,  then,’  said  she,  resuming  her  seat,  ‘ I must  tell  you  of  an 
odd  thing  which  happened  here  last  night.  I came  out  to  walk 
about  the  ruins  between  the  lights — that  is,  as  one  may  say,  when 
it  is  neither  dark  nor  light.  As  the  air  was  cold,  I wrapped  my  veil 
about  me,  and  had  just  turned  the  cloisters,  when  I heard  a quick 
foot  pacing  after  me.  Well,  I,  supposing  it  to  be  one  of  the  sisters, 
walked  slowly,  that  she  might  easily  overtake  me.  But  you  may 
^uess  my  surprise  when  I was  overtaken,  not  by  one  of  them  in- 
deed, but  by  one  of  the  finest  and  most  beautiful  young  men  I 
ever  beheld.  Lord,  how  he  did  start  when  he  saw  me,  just  for  all 
the  world  as  if  I was  a ghost  ; he  looked  quite  wild,  and  flew  off, 
muttering  something  to  himself.  Well,  I thought  all  this  strange, 
and  was  making  all  the  haste  I could  to  the  convent,  when  he  ap- 
peared again,  coming  from  under  that  broken  arch  ; and  he  bowed 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


163 


and  smiled  so  sweetly,  and  held  his  hat  in  his  hand  so  respectfully 
while  he  begged  my  pardon  for  the  alarm  he  had  given  me  ; and 
then  he  blushed  and  strove  to  hide  his  confusion  with  his  baud'- 
kerchief,  while  he  asked  me  if  I had  seen  here  a young  lady  about 
the  ruins  that  evening,  as  a particular  friend  had  informed  him 
she  would  be  there,  and  desired  him  to  escort  her  home.  “ Why,, 
my  dear  sir,”  says  I,  “ I have  been  about  this  place  the  whole  even- 
ing, and  there  has  neither  been  man,  woman,  nor  child,  but  you 
and  myself  ; so  the  young  lady  changed  her  mind,  and  took  an- 
other ramble.  ” “Sol  suppose,  ” said  he,  and  he  looked  so  pale,  and 
so  melancholy,  I could  not  help  thinking  it  was  a sweetheart  he 
had  been  seeking  ; so  by  way  of  giving  him  a bit  of  comfort, 
“Sir,”  says  I,  “if  you  will  leave  any  marks  of  the  young  lady  you 
.were  seeking  with  me,  I will  watch  here  myself  a little  longer  for 
her  ; and  if  she  comes  I will  tell  her  how  uneasy  you  were  at  not 
finding  her,  and  be  sure  to  dispatch  her  after  you.”  “No,  he 
thanked  me,”  he  said,  ‘but  it  was  of  very  little  consequence  his 
not  meeting  her,  or  indeed  whether  he  ever  met  her  again,”  and 
went  away.  ’ Did  he  ? ’ said  Amanda.  ‘ Bless  me  ! ’ exclaimed 
the  nun,  ‘ you  are  worse,  instead  of  better.’ 

Amanda  acknowledged  she  was,  and  rising,  requested  she 
would  excuse  her  not  paying  her  compliments  that  evening  at 
the  nunnery. 

Sister  Mary  pressed  her  to  drink  tea  with  the  prioress,  or  at 
least  take  some  of  her  excellent  cordial  ; but  Amanda  refused 
both  requests,  and  the  affectionate  nun  saw  her  depart  with  re- 
luctance. 

Scarcely  had  she  regained  the  road,  ere  a coach  and  six,  pre- 
ceded and  followed  by  a number  of  attendants,  approached  with 
such  quickness  that  she  was  obliged  to  step  aside  to  avoid  iL 
Looking  in  at  the  window  as  it  passed,  she  saw  Lord  Mortim’er 
and  Lady  Euphrasia  seated  in  it,  opposite  to  each  other  ; she  saw 
they  both  perceived  her,  and  that  Lad^^  Euphrasia  laughed,  and 
put  her  head  forward  to  stare  impertinently  at  her.  Amanda  was 
mortified  that  they  had  seen  her;  there  was  something  at  that 
moment  humiliating  in  the  contrast  between  their  situation  and 
hers — she,  dejected  and  solitary,  they  adorned  and  attended  with 
all  the  advantages  of  fortune.  ‘ But  in  the  estimation  of  a liberal 
mind,’  cried  she,  ‘ the  want  of  such  advantages  can  never  lessen  me 
— such  a mind  as  I fiatter  myself  Lord  Mortimer  possesses.  Ah  1 
if  he  thinks  as  I do,  he  would  prefer  a lonely  ramble  in  the  deso- 
late spot  I have  just  quitted,  to  all  the  parade  and  magnificence 
he  is  about  witnessing.’  The  night  passed  heavily  away.  The 
idea  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  devoting  all  his  attention  to  Lady  Euphra- 
sia, could  not  be  driven  from  her  mind. 

The  next  morning,  the  first  object  she  saw,  on  going  to  the  wirt 


164 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


dow,  was  a large  frigate  lying  at  anchor  near  the  castle.  Ellen 
entered  her  chamber,  and  sighing  heavily,  as  she  always  did,  in- 
deed, at  the  sight  of  a ship,  said,  ‘ she  wished  it  contained  her 
wandering  sailor.’  Amanda  indulged  a hope  that  Lord  Mortimer 
would  appear  in  the  course  of  the  day,  but  she  was  disappointed. 
She  retired,  after  tea,  in  the  evening  to  her  dressing  room,  and 
seated  in  the  window,  enjoyed  a calm  and  beautiful  scene.  Not 
a cloud  concealed  the  bright  azure  of  the  tirmament;  the  moon 
.spread  a line  of  silvery  radiance  over  the  waves,  that  stole  with  a 
melancholy  murmur  upon  the  shore  ; and  the  silence  which 
reigned  around  was  only  interrupted  by  the  faint  noise  of  the 
mariners  on  board  the  frigate,  and  their  evening  drum.  At  last 
Amanda  heard  the  paddling  of  oars,  and  perceived  a large  boat 
coming  from  the  ship,  rowed  by  sailors  in  white  shirts  and  trou-. 
sers,  their  voices  keeping  time  to  their  oars.  The  appearance  they 
made  was  picturesque,  and  Amanda  watched  them  till  the  boat 
disappeared  among  the  rocks.  The  supper-bell  soon  after  sum- 
moned her  from  the  window  ; but  scarcely  had  she  retired  to  her 
chamber  for  the  night,  ere  Ellen  smiling,  trembling,  and  appar- 
ently overcome  with  joy,  appeared. 

‘I  have  seen  him,’  cried  she  hastily  ; ‘ oh,  madam,  I have  seen 
poor  Chip  himself,  and  he  is  as  kind  and  as  true-hearted  as  ever. 

I went  this  evening  to  the  village  to  see  old  Norah,  to  whom  you 
ssent  the  linen,  for  she  is  a pleasing  kind  of  poty,  and  does  not 
laugh  like  the  rest  at  one  for  their  Welsh  tongue  ; so  when  I was 
returning  home,  and  at  a goot  tistance  from  her  cabin,  I saw  a 
great  number  of  men  coming  toward  me,  all  dressed  in  white. 
To  pe  sure,  as  I heerd  a great  teal  apout  the  white  poys,  I thought 
these  were  nothing  else,  and  I did  so  quake  and  tremble,  for  there 
was  neither  hole,  nor  bush,  nor  tree  on  the  spot,  that  would  have 
sheltered  one  of  the  little  tiny  fairies  of  Penmaenmawr.  Well, 
they  came  on,  shouting  and  laughing,  and  merrier  than  I thought 
such  rogues  ought  to  be  ; and  the  moment  they  espied  me,  they 
gathered  round  me,  and  began  pulling  me  about  ; so  I gave  a 
great  scream,  and  tirectly  a voice  (Lort,  how  my  heart  jumped  at 
it)  cried  out,  “ that  is  Ellen ; ” and  to  pe  sure  poor  Chip  soon  had 
me  in  his  arms ; and  then  I heard  they  were  sailors  from  the  frigate, 
come  to  get  fresh  provisions  at  the  village  ; so  I turned  pack  with 
them,  and  they  had  a great  powl  of  whisky  punch,  and  a whole 
sight  of  cakes,  and  Chip  told  me  all  his  adventures  ; and  he  was 
so  glad  wdien  he  heard  I lived  with  you,  pecause  he  said  you  were 
a sweet,  mild  young  laty,  and  he  was  sure  you  would  sometimes 
remind  me  of  him  ; and  he  hopes  soon  to  get  his  tischarge,  and 

then ’ ‘You  are  to  be  married,’  said  Amanda,  interpreting  the 

blushes  and  hesitation  of  Ellen.  ‘ Yes,  matam,  and  I assure  you 
Chip  is  not  altered  for  the  worse  py  a seafaring  life.  His  voice 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


165 


>nteed,  is  a little  of  the  roughest,  but  he  told  me  that  was  owing 
to  his  learning  the  poatswain’s  whistle.  Poor  fellow,  he  sails  to- 
morrow night.  The  ship  is  on  the  Irish  station,  and  they  are  to 
coast  it  tg  Dublin.’ 

‘ Happy  Ellen ! ’ said  Amanda,  as  she  retired  from  her  chamber,, 
‘ thy  perturbations  and  disquietudes  are  over;  assured  of  the 
affection  of  thy  village  swain,  peace  and  cheerfulness  will  resume 
their  empire  in  thy  breast.’ 

The  next  evening,  at  twilight,  Amanda  went  down  to  the  beacli 
with  her  father  to  see  the  fishermen  drawing  their  seines  on  shore,, 
on  which  their  hopes,  and  the  comfort  of  their  families,  depended. 
Whilst  Fitzalan  conversed  with  them,  Amanda  seated  herself  on 
a low  rock  to  observe  their  motions.  In  the  murmur  of  the  waves 
there  was  a gentle  melancholy,  in  unison  with  her  present  feel- 
ings. From  a pensive  meditation,  which  had  gradually  rendered 
her  inattentive  to  the  scene  before  her,  she  was  suddenly  roused 
by  voices  behind  her.  She  started  from  her  seat,  for  in  one  of  them 
she  imagined  she  distinguished  the  accent  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Nor 
was  she  mistaken.  He  was  descending  a winding  path  near  her, 
accompanied  by  a naval  officer.  To  pass  without  seeing  her  was?, 
impossible ; and  as  he  approached  her,  he  stopped,  apparently  hesi- 
tating whether  or  not  he  should  address  her.  In  a few  minutes 
his  hesitation  ended,  with  waving  his  handkerchief,  as  if  to  bid  her 
adieu,  whilst  he  proceeded  to  a small  boat  which  had  been  for  some 
time  lying  in  a creek  among  the  rocks,  and  which,  on  receiving 
him  and  his  companion,  immediately  rowed  to  the  frigate. 
Amanda  trembled.  Her  heart  beat  violently.  Ellen  had  informed 
her  the  frigate  was  to  sail  that  night ; and  what  could  induce  Lord 
Mortimer  to  visit  it  at  such  an  hour,  except  an  intention  of  depart- 
ing in  it. 

Uncertainty  is  dreadful.  She  grew  sick  with  anxiety  before 
her  father  returned  to  the  castle.  On  entering  it,  she  immediately 
repaired  to  her  chamber,  and  calling  Ellen  hastily,  denianded  if 
Chip’s  intelligence  was  true? 

‘Alas!  yes,’  said  Ellen,  weeping  violently;  ‘and  I know  the 
reason  you  inquire.  You  saw  Lord  Mortimer  going  to  the  ship. 
I saw  him  myself,  as  I stood  on  the  beach  talking  to  Chip,  who 
was  one  of  the  sailors  that  came  in  the  boat  for  his  lortship  and 
the  captain;  and  to  be  sure  the  sight  left  my  eyes  when  I saw  my 
lort  departing,  pecause  I knew  he  was  going  away  in  anger  at  the 
treatment  he  supposed  he  received  from  you.’ 

‘ From  me?  ’ exclaimed  Amanda. 

‘ Oh ! you  will  never  forgive  me  for  acting  so  padly  as  I have 
done  by  you,’  sobbed  Ellen ; ‘ put  inteed  the  sight  of  poor  Chip 
drove  everything  from  my  memory  put  himself.  Last  night,  as  I 
was  going  to  Norah’s  I overtook  Lort  Mortimer  on  the  road,  who 


166 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


was  walking  quite  sorrowfully,  as  I may  say,  py  himself;  so  to 
pe  sure  I thought  I could  do  no  less  in  good  manners  than  drop 
him  a curtsey  as  I passed ; so  up  he  came  to  me  directly:  “And, 
my  good  girl,  how  are  you?  ” said  he;  and  he  smiled  so  sweetly, 
and  looked  so  handsome;  and  then  he  took  my  hand,  and  to  pe 
sure  his  hand  was  as  soft  as  any  velvet.  “ And  pray,  Ellen,”  said 
he,  “ is  Miss  Fitzalan  at  home,  and  disengaged?  ” I told  him  you 
was,  “ and  Cot  knows,  my  Lort,”  said  I,  “and  melancholy  enough, 
loo.  I left  her  in  the  tressing-room  window,  looking  out  at  the 
waves,  and  listening  to  the  winds.”  “Well,  hasten  home, ’’cried  he, 
“ and  tell  her  she  will  oblige  me  greatly  py  meeting  me  immediately 
at  the  rocks  peyond  the  castle.”  I promised  him  I would,  and  he 
put,  nay,  inteed,  forced  five  guineas  into  my  hand,  and  turned  off 
another  road,  charging  me  not  to  forget ; put  as  I was  so  near 
Norah’s,  1 thought  I might  just  step  in  to  see  how  she  did,  and 
when  I left  her,  I met  poor  Chip,  and  Lort  knows  I am  afraid  he 
would  have  made  me  forget  my  own  tear  father  and  mother.’ 

‘ Oh,  Ellen!’  cried  Amanda,  ‘ how  could  you  serve  me  so?  ’ ‘Oh, 
tear!’  said  Ellen,  redoubling  her  tears,  ‘I  am  certainly  one  of 
the  most  unfortunate  girls  in  the  world ; put,  Lort,  now.  Miss 
Amanda,  why  should  you  be  so  sorrowful;  for  certain  my  lort 
loves  you  too  well  to  pe  always  angry.  There  is  poor  Chip  now, 
though  he  thought  I loved  Parson  Howel,  he  never  forgot  me.’ 

Ellen’s  efforts  at  consolation  were  not  successful,  and  Amanda 
dismissed  her,  that,  unnoticed  and  unrestrained,  she  might  in- 
dulge the  tears  which  flowed  at  the  idea  of  a long,  a lasting  sepa- 
ration, perhaps,  from  Lord  Mortimer.  Offended,  justly  offended, 
as  she  supposed,  with  her,  the  probability  was  she  would  be  ban- 
ished from  his  thoughts,  or,  if  remembered,  at  least  without  es- 
teem or  tenderness : thus  might  his  heart  soon  be  qualified  for 
making  another  choice.  She  walked  to  the  window,  and  saw  the 
ship  already  under  weigh.  She  saw  the  white  sails  fluttering  in 
the  breeze,  and  heard  the  shouts  of  the  mariners.  ‘ Oh,  Mortimer ! ^ 
cried  she,  ‘ is  it  thus  we  part  ? is  it  thus  the  expectations  you  raised 
in  my  heart  are  disappointed  ? You  go  hence,  and  deem  Amanda 
unworthy  a farewell.  You  gaze,  perhaps,  at  this  moment  on 
Castle  Carberry,  without  breathing  one  sigh  for  its  inhabitants. 
Ah,  had  you  loved  sincerely,  never  would  the  impulse  of  resent- 
ment have  conquered  the  emotion  of  tenderness.  No,  Mortimer, 
you  deceived  me,  and  perhaps  yourself,  in  saying  I was  dear  to 
you.  Had  I been  so,  never  could  you  have  acted  in  this  manner.’ 
Her  eyes  followed  the  course  of  the  vessel,  till  it  appeared  like  a 
speck  in  the  horizon.  ‘ He  is  gone,  ’ said  she,  weeping  afresh,  and 
withdrawing  herself  from  the  window  ; ‘ he  is  gone,  and  if  ever 
I meet  him  again,  it  will  probably  be  as  the  husband  of  Lady 
Euphrasia.’ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Think’st  thou  I’ll  make  a life  of  jealousy. 

To  follow  still  the  changes  of  the  moon 

With  fresh  surmises  ? No;  to  be  once  in  donbt 

Is  to  be  resolved.  But  yet 

ril  see  before  I doubt : when  I doubt,  prove, 

And  on  the  proof  there  is  no  more  but  this— 

Away  at  once  with  love  or  jealousy.— Shakespeare. 

Lord  Mortimer  had,  in  reality,  departed  with  sentiments  very 
unfavorable  to  Amanda.  He  had  waited  impatiently  at  St.  Cather- 
ine’s, in  the  fond  expectation  of  having  all  his  doubts  removed  by  a 
candid  explanation  of  the  motives  which  caused  her  precipitate 
journey  from  Wales.  His  soul  sighed  for  a reconciliation  : his 
tenderness  was  redoubled  by  being  so  long  restrained.  The  idea 
of  folding  his  beloved  Amanda  to  his  bosom,  and  hearing  that 
she  deserved  all  the  tenderness  and  sensibility  which  glowed  in 
that  bosom  for  her,  gave  him  the  highest  pleasure  ; but  when  the 
appointed  hour  passed,  and  no  Amanda  appeared,  language  can- 
not express  his  disappointment.  Almost  distracted  by  it,  he  ven- 
tured to  inquire  concerning  her  from  Sister  Mary  ; and,  long  after 
the  friendly  nun  had  retired  to  the  convent,  continued  to  wander 
about  the  ruins,  till  the  shadows  of  night  had  enveloped  every 
object  from  his  view.  ‘ She  fears  to  come,  then,’  exclaimed  he, 
quitting  the  desolate  spot,  oppressed  with  the  keenest  anguish  ; 
‘ she  fears  to  come,  because  she  cannot  satisfy  my  doubts.  I wit- 
nessed her  agitation,  her  embarrassment,  this  morning,  when  I 
hinted  at  them.  The  mystery  which  separated  us  will  not  be  ex- 
plained, and  it  is  in  vain  to  think  we  shall  ever  meet,  as  I once 
flattered  myself  we  should.’ 

This  thought  seemed  to  strike  at  all  his  hopes.  The  distress  and 
disorder  of  his  mind  was  depicted  on  his  countenance,  and  escaped 
not  the  observation  and  raillery  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Eu- 
phrasia ; but  their  raillery  Avas  in  vain,  and  unanswered  by  him; 
he  was  absorbed  in  a train  of  pensive  reflections,  which  they  had 
neither  power  to  remove  or  disturb. 

Most  unwillingly  he  accompanied  them  the  ensuing  day  to  a 
splendid  entertainment  given  purposely  for  them  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  unexpected  sight  of  Amanda,  as  she  stood  on  a 
little  elevated  bank,  to  avoid  the  carriage,  caused  a sudden  emo- 
tion of  surprise  and  delight  in  his  bosom.  The  utmost  powers  of 
eloquence  could  not  have  pleaded  her  cause  so  successfully  as  her 
own  appearance  at  that  minute  did.  The  languor  of  her  face,  its 
mild  and  seraphic  expression,  her  pensive  attitude,  aud  the  timid 
modesty  with  which  she  seemed  shrinking  from  observation,  all 
touched  the  sensibility  of  Lord  Mortimer,  awakened  his  softest 
feelings,  revived  his  hopes,  and  made  him  resolve  to  seek  another 


168 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


opportunity  of  demanding  an  explanation  from  her.  The  sudden 
color  which  flushed  his  cheeks,  and  the  sparkling  of  his  eyes,  as 
he  looked  from  the  carriage,  attracted  the  notice  of  his  companions. 
They  smiled  maliciously  at  each  other,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  de» 
dared,  ‘ She  supposed  the  girl  was  stationed  there  to  try  and  at- 
tract admiration,  which,  perhaps,  her  silly  old  father  had  told 
her  she  merited — or  else  to  meet  with  adventures.  ’ Lord  Morti- 
mer drew  in  his  head,  and  the  contrast  between  her  ladyship  and 
the  fair  being  he  had  been  looking  at,  never  struck  him  so  forci- 
bly as  at  that  moment,  and  lessened  one  as  much  as  it  elevated 
the  other  in  his  estimation. 

He  wandered  near  the  castle  the  next  evening,  in  hopes  of 
meeting  Amanda.  His  disappointment  was  diminished  by  seeing 
Ellen,  who,  he  was  confident,  would  be  faithful  to  the  message 
intrusted  to  her.  With  this  confidence  he  hastened  to  the  rocks, 
every  moment  expecting  the  appearance  of  Amanda.  Her  image, 
as  it  appeared  to  him  the  preceding  day,  dwelt  upon  his  imagina- 
tion, and  he  forcibly  felt  how  essential  to  his  peace  was  a recon- 
ciliation with  her.  An  hour  elapsed,  and  his  tenderness  again 
began  to  give  way  to  resentment.  It  was  not  Ellen,  but  Amanda 
he  doubted.  He  traversed  the  beach  in  an  agonj^  of  impatience 
and  anxiety  ; a feverish  heat  pervaded  his  frame,  and  he  trembled 
with  agitation.  At  length  he  heard  the  distant  sound  of  the 
supper- bell  at  Ulster  Lodge,  which  never  rang  till  a late  hour. 
All  hopes  of  seeing  Amanda  were  now  given  up,  and  every  inten- 
tion of  meeting  her  at  a future  period  relinquished.  She  avoided 
him  designedly,  it  was  evident.  He  would  have  cursed  himself 
for  betraying  such  anxiety  about  her,  and  his  wounded  pride  re- 
volted from  the  idea  of  seeking  another  interview.  ‘ No  ? 
Amanda ! ’ he  exclaimed,  as  he  passed  the  castle,  ‘ you  can  no 
longer  have  any  claim  upon  me.  Mysterious  appearances  in  the 
most  candid  mind  will  raise  suspicion.  In  giving  you  an  oppor- 
tunity for  accounting  for  such  appearances,  I did  all  that  candor^ 
tenderness,  sensibility,  and  honor’  could  dictate  ; and,  instead  of 
again  making  efforts  to  converse  with  you,  I must  now  make 
others,  which,  I trust,  will  be  more  successful,  entirely  to  forget 
you.’ 

The  next  morning  he  accompanied  the  marquis  in  his  barge  to 
the  frigate,  where  he  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  in  the  com- 
mander an  old  friend  of  his.  Captain  Somerville,  who  returned  to 
Ulster  Lodge  with  his  visitors,*and  there,  in  a half-jesting,  half- 
serious  manner,  asked  Lord  Mortimer  to  accompany  him  on  his 
intended  cruise.  This  his  lordship  instantly  promised  he  would, 
with  pleasure.  He  was  completely  tired  of  the  Roslin  family,  and 
was,  besides,  glad  of  an  opportunity  of  convincing  Amanda  he 
was  not  quite  so  fascinated  by  her  as  she  perhaps  belie  vred,  by  his 


THE  CHILDREX  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


169 


quitting  the  neighborhood  ere  their  departure.  As  he  descended 
to  the  boat,  the  sight  of  Amanda  shook  his  resolution.  She 
seemed  destined  to  cross  his  path,  merely  to  give  him  disquietude. 
All  ardent  wish  sprung  in  his  heart  to  address  her,  but  it  was  in- 
stantly suppressed,  by  reflecting  how  premeditately  she  had 
avoided  him ; pride,  therefore,  prompted  him  to  pass  her  in  silence; 
yet,  as  the  boat  receded  from  the  shore,  his  eyes  were  riveted  to 
tiie  spot  on  which  she  stood,  and  when  he  could  no  longer  see  her 
wnite  gown  fluttering  in  the  wind,  he  gave  a sigh  to  the  remem- 
brance of  the  happy  days  he  had  passed  with  her  at  Tudor  Hall ; 
and  another  to  the  idea,  that  such  hours  would  never  more  be  en- 
joyed by  him. 

The  family  at  Ulster  Lodge  were  both  mortified  and  disap- 
pointed by  his  departure,  though  he,  perceiving  their  displeasure, 
had  endeavored  to  lessen  it  by  promising  to  wait  their  arrival  in 
Dublin,  and  return  with  them  to  England.  His  departure  seemed 
a tacit  intimation  that  he  was  not  as  much  attached  to  Lady 
Euphrasia  as  they  wished  him  to  be.  A suspicion  of  this  nature 
had,  indeed,  for  some  time  pervaded  their  minds,  and  also  that 
his  affections  were  elsewhere  disposed  of  : they  had  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  the  person  who  possessed  them  dwelt  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  lodge,  from  the  great  alteration  which  took  place  in  his 
manner,  immediately  after  his  arrival  at  it.  In  hopes  of  discover- 
ing who  this  was,  they  watched  him  critically  at  all  the  parties  he 
frequented  with  them,  but  soon  found  it  was  not  the  present,  but 
the  absent  objects  had  the  power  of  exciting  emotions  in  him. 
^t  the  name  of  Amanda  Fitzalan  or  her  father  they  observed  him 
color,  and  frequently  saw  him  contemplate  Castle  Carberry,  as 
if  it  contained  a being  infinitely  dear  to  him  ; to  Amanda,  there- 
fore, they  feared  he  was  attached,  and  supposed  the  attachment 
commenced  at  the  Kilcorbans’  ball,  where  they  had  noticed  his 
impassioned  glances  at  this  hated,  because  too  lovely  relation. 
The  most  unbounded  rage  took  possession  of  their  souls  ; they  re- 
gretted ever  having  come  to  Ireland,  where  they  supposed  Lord 
Mortimer  had  first  seen  Amanda,  as  Lord  Cherbury  had  mentioned 
the  children  of  Fitzalan  being  strangers  to  him  or  his  family. 
They  knew  the  passions  of  Lord  Cherbury  were  impetuous,  and 
that  ambition  was  the  leading  principle  of  his  soul.  Anxious  for 
an  alliance  between  his  family  and  theirs,  they  knew  he  would  ill 
brook  any  obstacle  which  should  be  thrown  in  the  way  of  its  com- 
pletion, and  therefore  resolved,  if  Lord  Mortimer,  at  their  next 
meeting,  appeared  averse  to  the  wishes  of  his  father,  to  acquaint 
the  earl  with  the  occasion  of  his  son’s  disinclination,  and  repre- 
sent Fitzalan  and  his  daughter  as  aiding  and  abetting  each  other, 
in  an  insidious  scheme  to  entangle  the  affections  of  Lord  Morti* 
mer,  and  draw  him  into  a marriage;  a scheme  which,  to  a man  o/ 


170 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


the  world  (as  they  knew  Lord  Cherbury  to  be),  would  appear  so 
very  probable  as  to  gain  implicit  credit.  This  they  knew  would 
convert  the  esteem  he  felt  for  Fitzalan  into  hatred  and  contempt ; 
his  favor  would  consequently  be  withdrawn,  and  the  father  and 
child  again  sunk  into  indigent  obscurity.  To  think  that  Amanda, 
by  dire  necessity,  should  be  reduced  to  servitude  ; to  think  the 
elegance  of  her  form  should  be  disguised  by  the  garb  of  poverty, 
and  the  charms  of  her  face  faded  by  misery,  were  ideas  so  grate- 
ful, so  ecstatic  to  their  hearts,  that  to  have  them  realized,  they 
felt  they  could  with  pleasure  relinquish  the  attentions  of  Lord 
Mortimer,  to  have  a pretext  for  injuring  Fitzalan  with  his  father  ; 
though  not  quite  assured  their  suspicions  were  well  founded,  they 
would  never  have  hesitated  communicating  them  as  such  to  Lord 
Cherbury  ; but  for  their  own  satisfaction  they  wished  to  know 
what  reason  they  had  to  entertain  them.  Lady  Greystock  was 
the  only  person  they  observed  on  a footing  of  intimacy  with 
Amanda,  and  through  her  means  flattered  themselves  they  might 
make  the  desired  discovery.  They  therefore  began  to  unbend 
from  their  haughtiness,  and  make  overtures  for  an  intimacy  with 
her  ; overtures  which  she  received  with  delight,  and  in  their 
present  attention  forgot  their  past  neglect,  which  had  given  her 
such  disgust.  As  they  became  intimate  with  her,  they  were 
much  amused  by  a shrewd  manner  she  possessed  of  telling  stories, 
and  placing  the  foibles  and  imperfections  of  their  visitors  in  the 
most  conspicuous  and  ludicrous  light  ; particularly  of  such  visi- 
tors as  were  not  agreeable  to  them.  With  the  foibles  of  human 
nature  she  was  well  acquainted,  also  with  the  art  of  turning  those 
foibles  to  her  own  advantage.  She  perceived  the  egregious  vanity 
of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  by  administering 
large  portions  of  what  Sterne  styles  the  delicious  essence  of  the 
soul,  to  them,  soon  became  an  immense  favorite.  After  an  in- 
junction of  secrecy,  the  marchioness  communicated  her  fears 
relative  to  Lord  Mortimer  and  Amanda,  which,  she  pretended, 
regard  for  one  and  pity  for  the  other,  had  excited  ; as  an  attach- 
ment either  of  an  honorable  or  dishonorable  nature,  she  knew 
Lord  Cherbury  would  never  pardon.  To  know,  therefore,  how 
far  matters  had  proceeded  between  them,  would  be  some  satis- 
faction, and  might,  perhaps,  be  the  means  of  preventing  the  ill 
consequences  she  dreaded.  Lady  Greystock  was  not  to  be  im- 
posed on  ; she  perceived  it  was  not  pity  for  Amanda,  but  envy 
and  jealousy,  which  had  excited  the  fears  of  the  marchioness. 
If  Lord  Mortimer  was  attached  to  Amanda,  from  his  sentiments 
and  manner  she  was  convinced  it  was  an  attachment  of  the 
purest  nature.  She  carefully  concealed  her  thoughts,  however, 
affected  to  enter  into  all  the  alarms  of  the  marchioness,  and,  as 
she  saw  she  was  expected  to  do,  promised  all  in  her  power  should 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


171 


be  done  for  discovering  what  attachment  subsisted  between  his 
lordship  and  Miss  Fitzalan.  For  this  purpose  she  began  to  grow 
constant  in  her  visits  at  Castle  Carberry,  often  spending  whole 
days  in  the  most  familiar  manner  with  Amanda,  and  endeavor- 
ing, by  various  methods,  to  beguile  her  of  the  secrets  of  her  heart, 
Sometimes  she  rallied  her  on  her  melancholy  ; sometimes  ex- 
pressed pity  for  it  in  strains  of  the  most  soothing  tenderness ; 
would  frequently  relate  little  fictitious  and  embellished  anecdotes 
of  her  own  youth,  in  which  she  said  she  had  suffered  the  most 
exquisite  misery,  from  an  unfortunate  entanglement  ; would 
then  advert  to  Lord  Mortimer  ; express  her  wonder  at  his  pre- 
cipitate departure,  and  her  admiration  of  his  virtues,  declaring  if 
ever  Lady  Euphrasia  gained  his  heart,  which  she  much  doubted, 
she  must  be  considered  as  one  of  the  most  fortunate  of  women. 

Delicacy  sealed  the  lips  of  Amanda  and  guarded  her  secret. 
She  believed  her  passion  to  be  hopeless,  and  felt  that  to  be  offered 
consolation  on  such  a subject,  would,  to  her  feelings,  be  truly 
humiliating.  But  though  she  could  command  her  words,  she 
could  not  her  feelings,  and  they  were  visibly  expressed  in  her 
countenance.  She  blushed  whenever  Lord  Mortimer  was  men- 
tioned ; looked  shocked  if  a union  between  him  and  Lady  Eu- 
phrasia was  hinted  at  ; and  smiled  if  a probability  was  sugge.sted  of 
its  never  taking  place.  Lady  Greystock,  at  last,  relinquished 
her  attempts  at  betraying  Amanda  into  a confession  of  her  senti- 
ments ; indeed,  she  thought  such  a confession  not  very  requisite, 
as  her  countenance  pretty  clearly  developed  what  they  were  ; 
and  she  deemed  herself  authorized  to  inform  the  marchioness  that 
she  was  sure  something  had  passed  between  Lord  Mortimer  and 
Amanda,  though  what  she  could  not  discover,  from  the  circum- 
spection of  the  latter.  The  marchioness  was  enraged,  and  more 
determined  than  ever  on  involving  Amanda  in  destruction,  if 
Lord  Mortimer  hesitated  a moment  in  obeying  the  wishes  of  his 
father  by  uniting  himself  to  Lady  Euphrasia, 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

And  to  be  plain,  ’tis  not  your  person 
My  stomach’s  set  so  sharp  and  fierce  on: 

But  'tis  your  better  part,  your  riches, 

That  my  enamored  heart  bewitches.— Hudibras. 

A MONTH  after  the  departure  of  Lord  Mortimer  the  Roslin  family 
left  Ulster  Lodge,  Amanda  sighed,  as  she  saw  them  pass,  at  the 
idea  of  the  approaching  meeting,  which  might,  perhaps,  soon  be 
followed  by  an  event  that  would  render  her  fond  remembrance  of 
lord  Mortimer  improper.  Many  of  the  families  about  the  castle 
were  already  gone  to  town  for  the  winter.  Those  who  remained 
m the  country  till  after  Christmas,  among  whom  were  the  Kilcop 


172 


7 aE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


bans,  had  so  entirely  neglected  Amanda,  from  the  time  the  mar^ 
chioness  arrived  in  the  neighborhood,  that  they  could  not  think  ol 
renewing  their  visits,  confident  as  they  were,  from  the  proper  dig* 
nity  of  her  and  Fitzalan’s  manner,  that  they  would  be  unwelcome. 

The  weather  was  now  often  too  severe  to  permit  Amanda  to 
take  her  usual  rambles;  and  the  solitude  of  the  castle  was 
heightened  by  her  own  melancholy  ideas,  as  well  as  by  the  dreari- 
ness of  the  season.  No  more  the  magic  hand  of  hope  sketched 
scenes  of  flattering  brightness,  to  dissipate  the  gloominess  of  the 
present  ones.  The  prospects  of  Amanda’s  heart  were  as  dreary ^ 
as  desolate,  as  those  she  viewed  from  the  windows  of  the  castle. 
Her  usual  avocations  no  longer  yielded  delight.  Every  idea, 
every  occupation,  was  embittered  by  the  reflection  of  being  lessened 
in  the  estimation  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Her  health  declined  with 
her  peace,  and  again  Fitzalan  had  the  anguish  of  seeing  sorrow 
nipping  his  lovely  blossom.  The  rose  forsook  her  cheek,  and  her 
form  assumed  a fragile  delicacy  which  threatened  the  demolition 
of  his  earthly  happiness.  He  was  not  ignorant  of  the  cause  of 
her  dejection,  but  he  would  not  shock  her  feelings  by  hinting  it. 
Every  effort  which  tenderness  could  suggest,  he  essayed  to  cheer 
her,  but  without  any  durable  effect ; for  though  she  smiled  when 
he  expressed  a wish  to  see  her  cheerful,  it  was  a smile  transient 
as  the  gleamings  of  a wintry  sun,  and  which  only  rendered  the 
succeeding  gloom  more  conspicuous. 

At  this  period  of  distress.  Lady  Greystock,  who  continued  her 
visits  at  the  castle,  made  a proposal,  which  Fitzalan  eagerly  em- 
braced. This  was  to  take  Amanda  with  her  to  London,  whither 
she  was  obliged  to  go  directly,  about  a lawsuit  carrying  on  be- 
tween her  and  the  nephew  of  her  late  husband. 

Change  of  scene,  Fitzalan  trusted,  would  remove  from  Amanda’s 
mind  the  dejection  which  oppressed  it,  and  consequently  aid  the 
restoration  of  her  health.  Of  Lord  Mortimer’s  renewing  his 
addresses,  he  had  not  the  slightest  apprehension,  as  he  neglected 
the  opportunities  he  might  have  had  in  the  country  for  such  a 
purpose.  Fitzalan,  it  may  be  remembered,  knew  not  that  his  lord- 
ship  had  ever  deviated  from  his  indifference,  and  he  believed  it 
occasioned  by  a transfer  of  his  affections  to  Lady  Euphrasia* 
He  was  also  ignorant  of  the  great  intimacy  between  the  Roslin 
family  and  Lady  Greystock,  and  consequently  of  the  probability 
there  was,  from  such  an  intimacy,  of  Amanda’s  being  often  in  the 
way  of  Lord  Mortimer.  If  she  met  him,  he  was  confident  it  would 
be  as  the  husband  or  favored  lover  of  Lady  Euphrasia ; and,  in 
either  of  these  characters,  he  was  certain,^  from  the  rectitude  and 
purity  of  her  principles,  she  would  be  more  than  ever  impressed 
with  the  necessity  of  conquering  her  attachment;  whilst  the  pain 
attending  such  a conviction  wouid  be  lessened,  and  probably  sooi? 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


173 


removed  by  surrounding  objects,  and  the  gay  scenes  she  must  en 
gage  in  from  being  the  companion  of  Lady  Greystock,  who  had  a 
numerous  and  elegant  acquaintance  in  London. 

Her  ladyship  appeared  to  him,  as  she  did  to  many  others,  a 
pleasing,  rational  woman — one  to  whose  care  his  heart’s  best  treas- 
ure might  safely  be  consigned.  He  was  induced  to  accept  her 
protection  for  his  Amanda,  not  only  on  account  of  her  present 
but  future  welfare.  His  own  health  was  extremely  delicate.  He 
deemed  his  life  very  precarious,  and  flattered  himself  Lady  Grey- 
stock,  by  having  his  beloved  girl  under  her  care,  would  grow  so 
attached  to  her,  as  to  prove  a friend  if  he  should  be  snatched  away 
ere  his  newly-obtained  independence  enabled  him  to  make  a pro- 
vision for  her.  In  indulging  this  hope,  his  heart  could  not  re- 
proach him  for  anything  mean  or  selfish.  Her  ladyship  had  fre- 
quently assured  him  all  her  relations  were  very  distant  ones,  and 
in  affluent  circumstances,  so  that  if  his  Amanda  received  any  proof 
of  kindness  from  her,  she  could  neither  injure  nor  encroach 
on  the  rights  of  others. 

This,  however,  was  not  the  case,  though  carefully  concealed 
from  him,  as  well  as  many  others,  by  her  ladyship.  Her  educa- 
tion had  either  given  birth  to,  or  strengthened,  the  artful  propen- 
sities of  her  disposition.  She  had  been  one  of  the  numerous  off- 
spring of  a gentleman  in  the  southern  part  of  Ireland,  whose  wife, 
a complete  housewife,  knowing  his  inability  of  giving  his  daughters 
fortunes,  determined  to  bring  them  up  so  as  to  save  one  for  their 
future  husbands. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen.  Miss  Bridget,  by  her  reputation  for 
domestic  cleverness,  attracted  the  notice  of  a man  of  easy  inde- 
pendence in  the  neighborhood,  who,  being  a perfect  Nimrod, 
wanted  somebody  to  manage  those  concerns  at  home,  which  he 
neglected  for  the  field  and  kennel;  and  in  obtaining  Miss  Bridget, 
he  procured  this  valuable  acquisition.  His  love  of  sport,  with 
his  life,  was  fatally  terminated  the  second  year  of  his  marriage,  by 
his  attempting  to  leap  a five-bar  gate.  A good  jointure  devolved 
to  his  widow,  and  the  offlce  of  consoling  her  to  the  rector  of  the 
parish,  a little  fat  elderly  man,  who  might  have  sat  very  well  for 
the  picture  of  Boniface.  So  successful  were  his  arguments,  that  he 
not  only  expelled  sorrow  from  her  . heart,  but  introduced  himself 
into  it,  and  had  the  felicity  of  receiving  her  hand  as  soon  as  her 
weeds  were  laid  aside.  Four  years  they  lived  in  uninterrupted  peace, 
but  too  free  an  enjoyment  of  the  good  things  of  this  life  under- 
mined the  constitution  of  the  rector.  He  was  ordered  to  Bath, 
where  his  mortal  career  was  shortly  terminated,  and  his  whole 
fortune  was  left  to  his  wife. 

In  the  house  where  she  lodged  was  an  ancient  baronet,  who  had 
never  been  married.  His  fortune  was  considerable,  but  his  mannef 


174 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


SO  strange  and  whimsujal,  that  he  appeared  incapable  of  enjoying 
the  advantages  it  would  have  afforded  to  others.  Notwithstanding 
tds  oddities,  he  was  compassionate;  and  as  the  fair  relict  was  un- 
accompanied by  a friend,  lie  waited  on  her  for  the  purpose  of  offer- 
ing consolation,  and  any  service  in  his  power.  This  attention  in- 
stantly inspired  her  with  an  idea  of  trying  to  make  him  feel  ten- 
derer sentiments  than  those  of  pity  for  her.  His  title  and  fortune 
were  so  attractive,  that  neither  his  capricious  disposition,  nor  the 
disparity  of  their  ages,  he  being  sixty,  and  she  only  eight-and- 
twenty,  could  prevent  her  ardently  desiring  a connection  between 
them.  Her  efforts  to  effect  this  were  long  unsuccessful;  but 
perseverence  will  almost  work  miracles.  Her  constant  good- 
humor,  and  unremitted  solicitude  about  him,  who  was  in  general 
an  invalid,  at  last  made  an  impression  on  his  flinty  heart,  and  in 
a fit  of  sudden  gratitude  he  offered  her  his  hand,  which  was 
eagerly  accepted. 

The  presumptive  heir  to  the  baronet’s  large  possessions  was 
the  son  and  only  child  of  a deceased  sister.  At  the  period  this 
unexpected  alliance  took  place,  he  was  about  twenty,  pleasing  in 
his  person,  and  engaging  in  his  manner,  and  tenderly  beloved  by 
his  uncle.  This  love.  Lady  Greystock  saw,  if  it  continued,  would 
frustrate  her  wish  of  possessing  the  baronet’s  whole  property. 
Various  schemes  fluctuated  in  her  mind  relative  to  the  manner 
in  which  she  should  lay  the  foundation  for  Rushbrook’s  ruin.  Ere 
she  could  determine  on  one,  chance  discovered  a secret  which 
completely  aided  her  intentions. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  the  baronet’s  country  residence.  Rush- 
brook  had  formed  an  attachment  for  the  daughter  of  a man 
against  whom  his  uncle  entertained  the  most  inveterate  enmity 
A union  with  this  girl,  she  was  well  convinced,  would  ruin  him. 
She  therefore  gave  him  to  understand  she  knew  of  his  attachment, 
and  sincerely  pitied  his  situation,  encouraging  his  love  by  the 
most  flattering  eulogiums  on  his  adored  Emily;  declared  her 
regret  that  hearts  so  congenial  should  be  separated  ; and  at  last 
intimated  that  if  they  wished  to  unite,  she  was  convinced  she 
would  soon  be  able  to  obtain  Sir  Geoffry’s  forgiveness  for  such  a 
step.  Her  artful  insinuations  hurried  the  unsuspicious  pair  into 
the  snare  she  had  spread  for  them.  The  consequence  of  this  was 
what  she  expected. 

Sir  Geoff ry’s  rage  was  unappeasable,  and  he  solemnly  vowed 
never  more  to  behold  his  nephew.  Lady  Greystock  wished  to 
preserve,  if  possible,  appearances  to  the  world,  and  prevailed  on 
him  to  give  her  five  hundred  pounds  for  Rushbrook,  to  which  she 
added  five  of  her  own,  and  presented  the  notes  to  him,  -with  an 
assurance  of  pleading  his  cause  whenever  she  found  a favorable 
opportunity  for  doing  so. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


175 


He  purchased  an  ensigncy  in  a regiment  on  the  point  of  embark- 
ing for  America,  where  he  felt  he  would  rather  encounter  distress 
than  among  those  who  had  known  him  in  affluence. 

Her  ladyship  now  redoubled  her  attention  to  Sir  Geoff ry,  and  at 
last  prepossessed  him  so  strongly  with  the  idea  of  her  affection  for 
him,  that  he  made  a will,  bequeathing  her  his  whole  fortune,, 
which  she  flattered  herself  with  soon  enjoying.  But  the  constitu- 
tion  of  Sir  Geoffry  was  stronger  than  she  imagined,  and  policy 
obliged  her  to  adhere  to  a conduct  which  had  gained  his  favor,  at 
she  knew  the  least  alteration  of  it  would,  to  his  capricious  temper^ 
be  sufficient  to  make  him  crush  all  her  hopes. 

Fifteen  years  passed  in  this  manner,  when  a friend  of  Rush- 
brook’s  advised  him  no  longer  to  ' deluded  by  the  promise* 
Lady  Greystock  still  continued  to  make,  of  interceding  in  his 
favor,  but  to  write  himself  to  his  uncle  for  forgiveness,  which  the 
duty  he  owed  his  family,  and  the  distress  of  his  situation,  should 
prompt  him  to  immediately.  Rushbrook  accordingly  wrote  a 
most  pathetic  letter,  and  his  friend,  as  he  had  promised,  delivered 
it  himself  to  the  baronet.  The  contents  of  the  letter,  and  the 
remonstrance  of  his  visitor,  produced  a great  change  in  the 
sentiments  of  the  baronet.  Tenderness  for  a nephew  he  had 
adopted  as  his  heir  from  his  infancy  began  to  revive,  and  he  seri- 
ously reflected,  that  by  leaving  his  fortune  to  Lady  Greystock, 
he  should  enrich  a family  unconnected  with  him,  whilst  the  last 
branch  of  his  own  was  left  to  obscurity  and  wretchedness.  Pride 
recoiled  from  such  an  idea,  and  he  told  the  gentleman  he  would 
consider  about  a reconciliation  with  his  nephew. 

The  conversation  between  them,  which  Lady  Greystock  had 
contrived  to  overhear,  filled  her  with  dismay  ; but  this  was  in- 
creased almost  to  distraction,  when,  an  attorney  being  sent  for, 
she  repaired  again  to  her  hiding-place,  and  heard  a new  will  die* 
tated  entirely  in  Rushbrook's  favor. 

Sir  Geoffry  was  soon  prevailed  on  to  see  his  nephew,  but  Mrs 
Rushbrook  and  the  children  were  not  suffered  to  appear  before 
him.  They  were,  however,  supplied  with  everything  requisite 
for  making  a genteel  appearance,  and  accompanying  the  regiment 
(again  ordered  abroad)  with  comfort. 

Soon  after  their  departure.  Sir  Geoffry  sunk  into  a sudden  state 
of  insensibility,  from  which  no  hopes  of  his  ever  recovering  could 
be  entertained.  The  situation  was  propitious  to  the  designs  of 
Lady  Greystock  ; none  but  creatures  of  her  own  were  admitted 
to  his  chamber.  An  attorney  was  sent  for,  who  had  often  trans- 
acted business  for  her,  relative  to  her  affairs  in  Ireland  ; and  a 
good  bribe  easily  prevailed  on  him  to  draw  up  a will  she  dictated, 
similar  to  that  before  made  in  her  favor.  The  baronet  was  raised 
in  her  arms,  while  the  attorney  guided  his  almost  lifeless  hand 


176 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEt. 


in  siting  it  ; and  two  clerks  set  their  names  as  witnesses.  Sil 
Geoff ry  expired  almost  immediately  after  this  scheme  was  exe- 
cuted. 

Rushbrook’s  friend,  who  had  been  appointed  to  act  for  him,  if 
this  event  took  place  while  he  was  abroad,  now  appeared.  A 
will  found  in  Sir  Geoffry’s  cabinet  was  read,  by  which  it  ap- 
peared Mr.  Rushbrook  was  his  sole  heir.  The  exultation  of  the 
peruser,  however,  was  of  short  continuance  ; her  ladyship’s 
attorney  appeared,  and  declared  the  will  was  rendered  null  by 
one  of  later  date,  which  he  had  drawn  up  in  Sir  Geoffry’s  last 
moments,  by  his  express  desire.  Consternation  and  surprise  per* 
vaded  the  mind  of  Rushbrook’s  friend  ; he  saw  the  will  was  too 
well  attested  for  him  to  . ^te  it,  yet  he  suspected  foul  play,  and 
lost  no  time  in  communicating*  his  suspicion  to  Rushbrook. 

Her  ladyship  settled  her  affairs  most  expeditiously  and  returned 
with  delight  to  her  native  country,  after  a very  long  absence 
from  it.  Most  of  her  near  relations  were  dead,  but  she  had  many 
distant  ones,  who,  prompted  by  the  knowledge  of  her  large  for- 
tune, eagerly  reminded  her  of  their  affinity,  and  vied  with  each 
other  in  paying  her  attention.  This  was  extremely  pleasing  to 
her  ladyship,  who  was  fond  of  pleasure  at  other  people’s  expense. 
For  herself  she  had  laid  down  rules  of  the  most  rigid  economy, 
which  she  strictly  adhered  to.  From  the  many  invitations  she 
received  she  was  seldom  a resident  in  her  own  house  , she  judged 
of  others  by  herself,  and  ascribed  the  attentions  she  received  to 
their  real  source,  self-interest,  which  she  laughed  secretly  to  think 
she  should  disappoint. 

She  was  remarkable  (as  Miss  Kilcorban  informed  Amanda)  for 
asking  young  people  to  do  little  matters  for  her,  such  as  making 
her  millinery,  working  ruffies,  aprons,  and  handkerchiefs. 

The  tranquillity  she  enjoyed  for  two  years  after  Sir  Geoffry’s 
death  was  a little  interrupted  by  his  nephew’s  arrival  from  Amer- 
ica, and  commencing  a suit  directly  against  her  by  the  advice  of 
his  friends  and  some  eminent  lawyers,  on  the  supposition  that  the 
will  by  which  she  inherited  had  been  made  when  his  uncle  was  in 
a state  of  imbecility. 

Lady  Greystock,  however,  received  but  a trifling  shock  from 
this  ; she  knew  he  had  no  money  to  carry  on  such  an  affair,  and 
that  his  advocates  would  lose  their  zeal  in  his  cause,  when  con- 
vinced of  the  state  of  his  finances.  On  being  obliged  to  go  to 
London  to  attend  the  suit,  it  immediately  occurred  that  Amanda 
would  be  a most  pleasing  companion  to  take  along  with  her,  as 
she  would  not  only  enliven  the  hours  she  must  sometimes  pass  at 
home,  but  do  a number  of  little  things  in  the  way  of  dress,  which 
would  save  a great  deal  of  expense. 

Amanda,  on  the  first  proposal  of  accompanying  her,  warmly 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


177 


opposed  it ; she  felt  unutterable  reluctance  to  leave  her  father, 
and  assured  him  she  would,  by  exerting  herself,  prove  that  a 
change  of  scene  was  not  requisite  for  restoring  her  cheerfulness. 
Fitzalan  knew  her  sincerity  in  making  this  promise,  but  he  also 
knew  her  inability  of  performing  it  ; his  happiness,  he  declared, 
depended  on  her  complying  with  this  request:  he  even  said  his 
own  health  would  probably  be  established  by  it,  as  during  her  ab- 
sence he  would  partake  of  the  amusements  of  the  country,  which 
he  had  hitherto  declined  on  her  account.  This  assertion  prevailed 
on  her  to  consent,  and  immediate  preparations  were  made  for  her 
journey,  as  the  invitation  had  not  been  given  till  within  a few 
days  of  her  ladyship’s  intended  departure.  As  she  went  by  Holy- 
head,  Fitzalan  determined  on  sending  Ellen  to  her  parents  till 
Amanda  returned  from  England,  which  determination  pleased 
Ellen  exceedingly,  as  she  longed  to  see  her  family,  and  tell  them 
particulars  of  Chip.  As  the  hour  approached  for  quitting  her 
father,  the  regret  and  reluctance  of  Amanda  increased  ’ nor  were 
his  feelings  less  oppressive,  though  better  concealed  : but  when 
the  moment  of  parting  came,  they  could  no  longer  be  suppressed  ; 
he  held  her  with  a trembling  grasp  to  his  heart,  as  if  life  would 
forsake  it.  On  her  departure,  the  gloom  on  his  mind  seemed  like 
a presentiment  of  evil  ; he  repented  forcing  her  from  him,  and 
scarcely  could  he  refrain  from  saying  they  must  not  part. 

Lady  Greystock,  who  in  every  scene  and  every  situation  pre- 
served her  composure,  hinted  to  him  the  injury  he  was  doing  his 
daughter  by  such  emotions;  and  mentioned  how  short  their  sep- 
aration would  be,  and  what  benefit  would  accrue  to  Amanda 
from  it. 

This  last  consideration,  recalled  to  his  mind,  instantly  composed 
him,  and  he  handed  them  to  her  ladyship’s  chariot,  wdiich  was 
followed  by  a hired  chaise  containing  her  woman  and  Ellen ; he 
then  sighed  her  a last  adieu,  returned  to  his  solitary  habitation 
to  pray,  and,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  weep  for  his  darling' 
child. 

Amanda’s  tears  streamed  down  her  pale  cheek,  and  never  did 
she  experience  a pang  of  such  sorrow  as  that  she  felt,  when,  the 
chaise  descending  a hill,  she  caught  the  last  glimpae  of  Castle 
Carberry. 

She  perceived,  however,  that  her  ladyship  had  no  relish  for  a 
gloomy  companion,  and  therefore  endeavored  to  recover  her  spirits, 
and  enter  into  conversation. 

Lady  Greystock  had  a number  of  friends  in  that  part  of  Ireland, 
and  therefore  never  stopped  at  an  inn. 

‘ I always,  my  dear,’  said  she  to  Amanda,  ‘ make  use  of  the 
friendship  professed  for  me,  and  thus  endeavor  to  render  the  great 
j«oad  of  life  delightful.’ 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


178 

They  arrived  the  third  day  in  Sackville  Street,  where  her  lady® 
ship  had  a house,  and  two  days  after  embarked  for  England.  They 
slept  the  first  night  they  landed  at  Holyhead,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing pursued  their  journey. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A song,  a flower,  a name,  at  once  restore 

Those  long-connected  scenes  when  first  they  moved 

The  attention.— Akenside. 

X HE  dejection  of  Amanda  gradually  declined,  as  the  idea  of  see- 
ing Lord  Mortimer  again  revived.  It  revived  not,  how  ever,  with- 
out hopes,  fears,  and  agitations.  Sometimes  she  imagined  she 
should  find  him  devoted  to  Lady  Euphrasia;  then  again  believed 
his  honor  and  sincerity  would  not  allow  him  to  give  her  up  so 
suddenly,  and  that  this  apparent  indifference  proceeded  from  re- 
sentment, which  would  vanish  if  an  opportunity  once  offered  (and 
she  trusted  there  would)  for  explaining  her  conduct.  She  endeav- 
ored to  calm  the  emotions  these  ideas  gave  rise  to,  by  refiecting 
that  a short  time  now  would  most  probably  terminate  her  suspense. 

They  stopped  for  the  night,  about  five  o’clock,  at  an  inn  about 
a mile  from  Tudor  Hall.  After  dinner,  Amanda  informed  Lady 
Grey  stock  she  wished  to  accompany  Ellen  to  her  parents.  To 
this  her  ladyship  made  no  objection,  on  finding  she  did  not  want 
the  carriage.  She  charged  her,  however,  not  to  forget  the  hour 
of  tea,  by  which  time  she  would  be  refreshed  by  a nap,  and  ready 
to  engage  her  at  a game  of  picquet. 

They  set  out  unattended,  as  Ellen  refused  the  ostler’s  offer  of 
carrying  her  portmanteau,  saying  she  would  send  for  it  the  next 
day.  This  she  did  by  Amanda’s  desire,  who  wished,  unobserved, 
to  pursue  a walk,  in  which  she  promised  herself  a melancholy 
indulgence,  from  reviewing  the  well-known  scenes  endeared  by 
tender  recollections. 

A mournful,  yet  not  undelightful,  sensation  attends  the  contem- 
plation of  scenes  where  we  once  enjoyed  felicity — departed  joys 
are  ever  remembered  with  an  enthusiasm  of  tenderness  which 
soothes  the  sorrow  we  experience  for  their  loss. 

Such  were  the  present  feelings  of  Amanda;  while  Ellen,  undis- 
turbed by  regrets  for  the  past,  pointed  out,  with  pleasure,  the 
dwellings  of  her  intimates  and  friends.  Yet  when  she  came  to 
Chip’s  deserted  cottage,  she  stopped,  and  a tear  stole  from  her  eye, 
accompanied  at  the  same  time  by  a smile,  which  seemed  to  say, 

* Though  thou  art  now  lonely  and  cheerless,  the  period  is  approach- 
ing when  comfort  and  g*ayety  shall  resume  their  stations  within 
thee;  when  the  blaze  of  thy  fire  and  thy  taper  shall  not  only  dif- 
fuse cheerfulness  within,  but  without,  and  give  a ray  to  the  deso* 
late,  or  benighted  traveler,  to  guide  him  to  thy  hospitable  shelter  I 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


119 


Amanda,  leaning  on  Ellen’s  arm,  proceeded  slowly  in  her  walk. 
The  evening  was  delightful.  The  blue  vault  of  heaven  was  span- 
gled with  stars,  and  the  air,  without  being  severely  cold,  was  clear 
and  refreshing.  Their  road,  on  one  side,  was  skirted  with  the 
high  woods  of  Tudor  Hall.  Amanda  gazed  on  them  with  emotion  ; 
but  when  she  came  to  the  gate  which  Lord  Mortimer  had  opened 
for  her  departure  at  their  first  interview,  the  softness  of  her  heart 
could  no  longer  be  resisted  : she  stopped,  leaned  pensively  upon 
it,  and  wept.  The  evergreens,  with  which  the  woods  abounded,  pre- 
vented their  wearing  a desolate  appearance.  She  wished  to  have 
pierced  into  their  most  sequestered  gloom,  but  she  had  no  time  to 
indulge  this  wish  ; nor  did  she,  indeed,  believe  her  companion^ 
who  was  tinctured  with  superstitious  fears,  would  have  accom- 
panied her.  ‘When  the  glow  of  vegetation  again  revives,’  said 
she  to  herself  ; ‘ when  the  blossoms  and  the  flowers  again  spread 
their  spangled  foliage  to  the  sun,  and  every  shade  resounds  with 
harmony,  where,  alas ! will  Amanda  be  ? — far  distant,  in  all  prob- 
ability, from  these  delightful  scenes,  perhaps  neglected  and  forgot- 
ten by  their  master ! ’ 

The  awful  murmurs  of  the  wind  rustling  through  the  trees, 
joined  to  the  solemn  sound  of  a neighboring  waterfall,  began  to 
excite  fears  in  Ellen’s  breast.  She  laid  her  trembling  hand  on 
Amanda,  and  besought  her,  for  the  love  of  Cot,  to  hasten  to  the 
cottage.  The  road  still  wound  round  the  wood  ; and  lights  from 
a small  village,  which  lay  on  its  borders,  cast  various  shadows 
upon  the  trees  ; while  the  hum  of  distant  voices  floated  upon  the 
gale,  and  fancy  pictured  joyous  groups  of  rustics  assembling 
round  their  fires,  to  enjoy  refreshment  after  the  labors  of  the 
day. 

‘Peaceful  people,’  said  Amanda,  ‘when  the  wants  of  nature  are 
satisfied,  no  care  or  trouble  obtrudes  upon  your  minds.  Tired 
but  not  exhausted  with  the  toils  of  the  day,  with  preparing  the 
bosom  of  the  earth  for  the  ethereal  mildness  of  the  spring,  you 
seek  and  enjoy  a calm  repose.’ 

In  the  lane  which  led  to  her  nurse’s  cottage,  Amanda  paused 
for  a moment.  Down  this  lane  Lord  Mortimer  had  once  pursued 
her.  She  looked  toward  the  mansion  of  Tudor  Hall.  She  en- 
deavored to  discern  the  library,  but  all  was  dark  and  dismal, 
except  the  wing  which  Ellen  informed  her  was  occupied  by  the 
domestics.  Through  the  window  of  Edwin’s  cottage  they  saw 
all  the  family  seated  round  a blazing  fire,  chatting  and  laughing. 
The  transport  of  Ellen’s  heart  overcame  every  idea  of  caution. 
She  hastily  unlatched  the  door,  and  flung  herself  into  her  parents’ 
arms.  Their  surprise  and  joy  was  unbounded,  and  Amanda  was 
received  and  welcomed  with  as  much  tenderness  as  their  child, 
without  ever  asking  the  reason  of  her  sudden  appearance.  The 


180 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


first  question  was,  ‘Would  she  not  stay  with  them?’  and  her 
answer  filled  them  with  regret  and  disappointment.  Perceiving 
them  about  procuring  her  refreshments,  ‘she  declared  she  had 
not  a minute  to  stay.  The  time  allotted  for  her  walk  was  already 
exceeded,  and  she  feared  Lady  Greystock  would  be  offended  at 
being  left  so  long  at  an  inn  by  herself.’  She  therefore  hastily 
presented  some  little  presents  she  had  brought  for  the  family,  and 
was  bidding  them  farewell,  w’hen  poor  Ellen,  who,  from  so  long 
residing  with  her  young  lady,  almost  adored  her,  suddenly  flung 
lierself  into  her  arms,  and  clinging  round  her  neck,  as  if  to  pre- 
vent a separation,  which,  till  the  moment  of  its  arrival,  she 
thought  she  could  have  supported,  exclaimed  : 

‘ Oh,  my  tear  young  laty,  we  are  going  to  part,  and  my  heart 
sinks  within  me  at  the  idea.  Even  Chip  himself,  if  he  was  here, 
could  not  console  me.  I know  you  are  not  happy,  and  that  increases 
my  sorrow.  Your  sweet  cheek  is  pale,  and  I have  often  seen  you 
cry  when  you  thought  nopody  was  minding  you.  If  you  who 
are  so  goot  are  not  happy,  how  can  a peing  like  me  hope  to  be  so  ? 
Oh,  may  I soon  pe  plest  with  seeing  you  return  the  mistress  of 
Tudor  Hall,  married  to  the  sweetest,  handsomest  of  noblemen, 
who,  I know,  in  my  soul,  loves  you,  as  well  indeed  he  may,  for 
where  would  he  see  the  fellow  of  my  young  laty  ? Then  Chip 
and  I will  be  so  happy,  for  I am  sure  you  and  my  lort  will  shelter 
our  humble  cottage.’ 

Amanda  pressed  the  affectionate  girl  to  her  breast,  and  mingled 
tears  with  hers,  while  she  softly  whispered  to  her  not  to  hint  at 
such  an  event ; ‘ but  be  assured,  my  dearest  Ellen,’  continued  she, 
^ that  I shall  ever  rejoice  at  your  felicity,  which,  to  the  utmost  of 
my  power,  I would  promote,  and  hope  soon  to  hear  of  your  union 
with  Chip.’ 

‘Alack-a-tay ! ’ said  her  nurse ; ‘ are  you  going  away,  when  I 
thought  you  came  to  stay  among  us?  and  then,  perhaps,  my  lort 
would  have  come,  and  then  there  would  have  peen  such  a happy 
meeting.  Why,  I verily  thought  he  would  have  gone  distracted 
when  he  found  you,  as  one  may  say,  run  away ; and  to  pe  sure  I did 
pity  him,  and  should  have  made  no  scruple  to  tell  him  where  you 
were,  had  I known  it  myself,  which  he  suspected,  for  he  offered 
me  a sight  of  money  if  I would  discover.  Then  there  is  Parson 
Howel ; why  he  has  peen  like  unto  nothing  put  a ghost  since  you 
went  away ; and  he  does  so  sigh,  and  he  comes  almost  every  tay 
to  ask  me  apout  you,  and  whether  I think  or  know  Lord  Morti- 
mer is  with  you.  He  will  pe  in  such  grief  to  think  you  were  here 
without  his  seeing  you.’ 

‘Well,’  said  Amanda,  endeavoring  to  be  cheerful,  ‘we  may 
all  yet  have  a happy  meeting.’ 

She  then  repeated  her  farewell,  and,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  old 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


181 


Edwin,  returned  to  the  inn,  where  she  again  bid  him  adieu  ; and 
hastening  to  her  ladyship,  found  her  just  awaking  from  a com- 
fortable slumber.  They  drank  tea,  and,  after  playing  for  about 
an  hour  at  picquet,  retired  to  rest.  Amanda,  who  enjoyer  •out 
little  repose,  rose  early  in  the  morning,  and,  finding  her  lady- 
ship not  quite  ready,  went  down  to  the  court  to  walk  about  till 
she  was  ; where,  to  her  great  surprise,  the  first  object  she  per- 
ceived was  Howel,  leaning  pensively  against  a gate  opposite  the 
house.  He  fiew  over,  and,  catching  her  hand,  exclaimed,  ‘ You 
are  surprised,  but,  I trust,  not  displeased.  I could  not  resist  such 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  you  once  more,  after  all  I have  suffered 
from  your  precipitate  journey,  and  the  probability  of  never  more 
beholding  you.  I have  been  watching  here,  in  expectation  of  this 
happiness,  since  the  first  dawn  of  day.’ 

‘I  am  sorry,’ said  Amanda  gravely,  ‘your  time  was  so  ill 
employed.’ 

‘How  coldly  you  speak,’  cried  he.  ‘Ah  ! could  you  read  my 
heart,  you  would  see  so  little  presumption  in  it  that  you  would, 
I am  confident,  pity,  though  you  could  not  relieve,  its  feelings. 
Every  spot  you  loved  to  frequent,  I have  haunted  since  your 
departure.  Your  mother’s  grave  has  often  been  the  scene  of  pen- 
sive meditation.  Nor  has  it  wanted  its  vernal  offering  ; the  love- 
liest flowers  of  my  garden  I have  wove  into  wreaths,  and  hung 
them  over  it,  in  fond  remembrance  of  her  angel  daughter.’ 

The  plaintive  sound  of  Howel’s  voice,  the  dejection  of  his 
countenance,  excited  the  softest  feelings  of  sensibility  in  Amanda’s 
bosom.  But  she  grew  confused  by  the  tenderness  of  his  expres- 
sion, and,  saying  she  was  happy  to  see  him,  tried  to  disengage  her 
hand,  that  she  might  retire. 

‘Surely, ’exclaimed  he,  still  detaining  it  a few  moments,  ‘you 
might  grant  me  without  reluctance — you,  who  are  going  to  enjoy 
every  happiness  and  pleasure,  going  to  meet  the  favored ’ 

Amanda  anticipated  the  name  he  was  about  uttering,  and  her 
confusion  redoubled.  She  attempted  again,  yet  in  vain,  to  with- 
draw her  hand,  and  turned  to  see  whether  anyone  was  observing 
them.  How  great  was  her  mortification,  on  perceiving  Lady 
Greystock  leaning  from  a window,  exactly  over  their  heads  ! 
She  smiled  significantly  at  Amanda,  on  being  seen  ; and,  the 
carriage  being  ready,  said,  ‘She  would  attend  her  below  stairs.’ 
Howel  now  relinquished  Amanda’s  hand.  He  saw  she  looked 
displeased  ; and  expressed  such  sorrow,  accompanied  with  such 
submissive  apologies  for  offending  her,  that  she  could  not  avoid 
according  him  her  pardon.  He  handed  both  her  and  Lady 
Greystock  into  the  carriage,  and  looked  a melancholy  adieu  as  it 
drove  off, 

‘ Upon  my  word,  a pretty  smart  young  fellow  I ’ said  Lady 


182 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Oreystock.  * Though  impatient  this  long  time  to  set  out,  I could 
not  think  of  interrupting  the  interesting  tete-a-tete  I saw  between 
you  and  him.  I suppose  you  have  been  a resident  in  this  part  of 
the  country  before,  from  your  seeming  to  know  this  tender  swain 
«o  well.’ 

Amanda  wished  to  avoid  acknowledging  this.  If  known,  she 
feared  it  would  lead  to  a discovery,  or  at  least  excite  a suspicion 
of  her  intimacy  with  Lord  Mortimer,  which  she  was  desirous  of 
concealing,  while  in  this  uncertainty  concerning  him. 

‘Your  ladyship  has  heard,  I belie  ve,  ’ replied  she,  • ‘ that  Ellen’s 
mother  nursed  me  ?’  ‘Yes,  my  dear,’  answered  her  ladyship, 
with  some  smartness  ; ‘ but  if  your  acquaintance  even  commenced 
with  this  youth  in  infancy,  I fancy  it  has  been  renewed  since  that 
period.  ’ 

Amanda  blushed  deeply,  and,  to  hide  her  confusion,  pretended 
to  be  looking  at  the  prospect  from  the  window.  Lady  Grey- 
stock’s  eyes  pursued  hers.  Tudor  Hall  was  conspicuous  from 
the  road,  and  Amanda  involuntarily  sighed  as  she  viewed  it. 

‘ That  is  a fine  domain,  ’ said  Lady  Greystock  ; ‘ I presume  you 
have  visited  it,  and  know  its  owner  ? ’ 

Amanda  could  not  assert  a falsehood,  neither  could  she  evade 
the  inquiries  of  Lady  Greystock  ; and  therefore  not  only  confessed 
its  being  the  estate  of  Lord  Mortimer,  but  her  own  residence  near 
it  the  preceding  summer.  Her  ladyship  immediately  conjectured 
it  was  then  the  attachment  between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer  had 
commenced  ; and  the  blushes,  the  hesitation,  and  the  unwilling- 
ness of  Amanda,  in  owning  her  visit  to  Wales,  all  confirmed  this 
conjecture.  She  tried,  however,  to  insinuate  herself  into  her  full 
confidence,  by  warm  expressions  of  esteem,  and  by  hinting  that 
from  the  disposition  of  Lord  Mortimer,  she  could  not  believe  he 
ever  did,  or  ever  would,  think  seriously  of  Lady  Euphrasia  ; this, 
she  hoped,  would  either  induce  or  betray  Amanda  to  open  her 
whole  heart  ; but  she  was  disappointed.  She  flattered  herself, 
however,  with  thinking  she  had  discovered  enough  to  satisfy  the 
marchioness,  if  she,  as  Lady  Greystock  feared  she  would,  ex- 
pressed any  disapprobation  at  seeing  Amanda  her  companion. 
She  intended  saying  that  Fitzalan  had  absolutely  forced  her 
under  her  protection. 

They  arrived  late  in  the  evening  of  the  third  day  at  Pall  Mall, 
where  her  ladyship’s  agent  had  previously  taken  lodgings  for 
them. 

Lady  Greystock,  though  immersed  in  business  against  the  ap- 
proaching trial,  neglected  no  means  of  amusement  ; and,  the  day 
after  her  arrival,  sent  a card  of  inquiry  to  the  Roslin  family,  as 
the  most  eligible  mode  of  informing  them  of  it.  The  next  morn- 
ing, as  she  expected,  she  received  a visit  from  them.  Amandsr 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


1S1 


^as  sitting  in  the  window  when  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door. 
Siie  instantly  arose  and  left  the  room,  determined  neither  to  ex- 
pose liei’Self  to  their  impertinence,  nor  appear  solicitous  for  their 
notice,  by  staying  in  their  company  uninvited.  Lady  Greystock 
soon  informed  them  of  Amanda’s  having  accompanied  her  to 
London  ; and  they,  as  she  expected,  expressed  both  surprise  and 
displeasure  at  it.  As  she  had  settled  in  her  own  mind,  she,  therc^- 
fore,  told  them  ‘ that  Fitzalan  had  urged  her  to  take  his  daughter 
under  her  care,  with  entreaties  she  could  not  resist.  Entreaties/ 
she  added,  with  a significant  look,  ‘ she  believed  he  had  good 
reason  for  making.’  She  then  related  all  she  suspected,  or  rather 
had  discovered,  relative  to  the  attachment  between  Lord  Mortimer 
and  Amanda  having  commenced  the  preceding  summer  in  Wales. 

The  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  instantly  concluded  she 
was  sent  to  London  for  the  purpose  of  having  it  completed  by  a 
marriage.  This,  however,  they  determined  to  prevent.  The 
marchioness  felt  the  most  inveterate  hatred  against  her  ; and  also, 
that,  to  prevent  her  being  advantageously  settled,  even  if  that 
settlement  threatened  not  to  interfere  with  the  one  she  had  pro- 
jected for  her  daughter,  she  could  undertake  almost  any  project 
Though  she  abhorred  the  idea  of  noticing  her,  yet  she  was  tempted 
now  to  do  so,  from  the  idea  that  it  would  better  enable  her  to 
watch  her  actions.  This  idea  she  communicated  in  a hasty 
whisper  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  who,  approving  it,  she  told  Lady 
Greystock,  ‘as  Miss  Fitzalan  was  her  guest,  she  would,  on  that 
account,  permit  her  to  be  introduced  to  them.’  Amanda  was 
accordingly  sent  for.  On  entering  the  room.  Lady  Greystock 
took  her  hand,  and  presented  her  to  the  marchioness  and  Lady 
Euphrasia.  The  former,  half  rising,  with  a coldness  she  could 
not  conquer,  said,  ‘ Whenever  Lady  Greystock  honored  her 
with  a visit,  she  should  be  happy  to  see  Miss  Fitzalan  along  with 
her.’  The  latter  only  noticed  her  by  a slight  bow  ; and  when 
Amanda  drew  a chair  near  the  sofa  on  which  she  sat,  or  rather  re- 
clined, she  continued  staring  in  her  face,  and  alternately  hum- 
ming an  Italian  air,  and  caressing  a little  dog  she  had  brought 
with  her.  The  unembarrassed  elegance  of  Amanda’s  air  and 
manner  surprised  and  mortified  them,  as  they  expected  to  have 
seen  her  covered  with  confusion  at  an  introduction  so  unexpected. 
To  their  haughty  souls,  nothing  was  more  delightful  than  the 
awe  and  deference  which  vulgar  and  illiberal  minds  are  so  apt  to 
pay  to  rank  and  fortune.  They  were  provoked  to  see,  in  Amanda, 
conscious  dignity,  instead  of  trembling  diffidence.  As  she  sat  by 
Lady  Euphrasia,  the  marchioness  could  not  help  secretly  confess- 
ing she  was  a dangerous  rival  to  her  daughter  ; for  never  did  her 
lovely  features  and  ingenuous  countenance  appear  to  such  advan- 
tage, as  when  contrasted  with  Lady  Euphrasia’s.  The  marchioness 


184 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


withdrew  soon  after  her  entrance,  unable  longer  to  restrain  the 
malignant  passions  which  envy  had  excited. 

Both  she  and  Lady  Euphrasia  were  convinced  that  to  commun- 
icate their  suspicions  at  present  to  Lord  Cherbury  about  her  and 
his  son  would  not  answer  the  end  proposed,  for  it  could  be  of 
little  consequence,  they  reflected,  to  withdraw  the  esteem  of  the 
father,  if  that  of  the  son  continued,  who,  independent  in  his 
notions,  and  certain  of  the  fortunes  of  his  ancestors,  might  not 
hesitate  to  gratify  himself.  The  point,  therefore,  was,  by  some 
deep-laid  scheme,  to  ruin  Amanda  in  the  estimation  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer ; and  if  in  the  power  of  mortals  to  contrive,  and  execute 
such  a scheme,  they  gave  themselves  credit  for  being  able  to  ef- 
fect it. 

The  blow  at  her  fond  hopes,  they  resolved,  should  be  followed 
by  one  against  the  peace  of  Fitzalan,  on  whom  they  knew,  when- 
ever they  pleased,  they  could  draw  the  resentment  of  Lord  Cher- 
bury. Thus  should  they  completely  triumph  over  the  lovely 
Amanda — plunge  two  beings  they  detested  into  poverty  and 
wretchedness — destroy  expectations  which  interfered  with  their 
own,  and  secure  an  alliance  with  a man  they  had  long  wished 
united  to  their  family. 

From  the  unaltered  indifference  of  Lord  Mortimer  to  Lady 
Euphrasia  they  were  convinced  of  his  predilection  for  another, 
flattering  themselves  that  nothing  but  a prior  attachment  could 
have  rendered  him  insensible  to  the  attractions  of  her  ladyship. 
To  render  the  object  of  this  attachment  contemptible  in  his  sight, 
they  believed  would  produce  the  transfer  of  affections  they^  so 
long  desired.  The  haughty  soul  of  Lady  Euphrasia  would  never 
have  permitted  her  to  think  of  accepting  Lord  Mortimer  after  his 
neglect  of  her,  but  by  the  opportunity  she  should  have  by  such 
an  acceptance  of  triumphing  over  Amanda.  From  this  idea,  she 
entered  warmly  into  all  her  mother’s  plans. 

Lord  Cherbury  had  never  yet  spoke  explicitly  to  his  son  con- 
cerning the  union  he  had  projected  for  him.  He  often,  indeed, 
dropped  hints  about  it,  which  he  always  found  either  neglected 
or  purposely  misunderstood  ; and  from  these  circumstances  was 
pretty  sensible  of  the  disinclination  Lord  Mortimer  felt  to  his 
wishes.  He  knew  he  entertained  high  notions  of  the  independence 
which  a rational  mind  has  a right  to  maintain,  and  in  an  affair 
of  such  consequence,  as  Mortimer  frequently  said  he  considered  a 
matrimonial  connection  to  be,  he  would  neither  be  controlled  by 
the  opinion  of  others  nor  merely  allured  by  the  advantages  of 
fortune. 

To  avoid  a disagreeable  argument  with  a son  he  not  only 
loved,  but  respected,  he  sought  rather,  by  indirect  means,  to  in- 
volve him  in  an  entanglement  with  the  Eoslin  family  than 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  185 

come  to  an  open  explanation  with  him.  For  this  purpose  he 
contrived  parties  as  often  as  possible  with  them  in  public;  where, 
by  Lord  Mortimer’s  being  seen  with  Lady  Euphrasia,  reports 
might  be  raised  of  an  intended  alliance  between  them — reports 
which  he  himself  propagated  among  some  particular  friends, 
with  a desire  of  having  them  circulated,  but  on  injunction  of 
secrecy  as  to  their  author.  These  reports  would,  he  trusted,  on 
reaching  Lord  Mortimer,  lead  to  a discussion  of  the  affair  ; and 
then  he  meant  to  say,  as  Lord  Mortimer  had  partly  contributed  to 
raise  them  himself  by  his  attendance  on  Lady  Euphrasia,  he 
could  not  possibly,  with  honor,  recede  from  realizing  them ; yet 
often  did  his  lordship  fear  his  scheme  would  prove  abortive — for 
he  well  knew  the  cool  judgment  and  keen  penetration  of  his  soul. 
This  fear  always  inspired  him  with  horror,  for  he  had  a motive 
for  desiring  the  union  which  he  durst  not  avow. 

Lord  Mortimer  quickly  indeed  discerned  what  his  father’s 
views  were  in  promoting  his  attendance  on  Lady  Euphrasia.  He 
therefore  avoided  her  society  whenever  it  was  possible  to  do  so 
without  absolute  rudeness,  and  contradicted  the  reports  he  al- 
most continually  heard  of  an  intended  alliance  between  them  in 
the  most  solemn  manner.  He  had  always  disliked  her,  but  lat- 
terly that  dislike  was  converted  into  hatred,  from  the  malev- 
olence of  her  conduct  toward  Amanda  ; and  he  felt  that,  even 
were  his  heart  free,  he  never  could  devote  it  to  her — or  give  his 
hand  where  it  must  be  unaccompanied  with  esteem.  He  wished 
to  avoid  a disagreeable  conversation  with  Lord  Cherbury,  and 
flattered  himself  his  unaltered  indifference  to  her  ladyship  would 
at  length  convince  his  lordship  of  the  impossibility  of  accorpplish- 
ing  his  projected  scheme  and  that  consequently  it  would  be 
dropped  ere  openly  avowed,  and  he  saved  the  painful  necessity 
of  absolutely  rejecting  a proposal  of  his  father’s. 

In  the  evening  Lady  Greystock  and  Amanda  received  cards  for 
dinner  the  next  day  at  the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s.  Amanda  made  no 
objection  to  this  invitation.  Her  father  had  often  declared,  if 
the  marchioness  made  an  overture  for  an  intimacy  with  his 
children,  he  would  not  reject  it,  as  he  always  deemed  family  quar- 
rels highly  prejudicial  to  both  parties,  with  regard  to  the  opinion 
of  the  world.  Besides,  had  she  objected  to  it,  she  should  either 
have  been  a restraint  on  Lady  Greystock,  or  left  to  total  solitude* 
and  the  idea  also  stole  upon  her  mind  that  she  should  lose  a 
chance  of  seeing  Lord  Mortimer,  whom  she  supposed  a frequent 
guest  of  the  marquis’s.  Her  heart  fluttered  at  the  idea  of  soon  be- 
holding him,  and  the  bright  glow  of  animation  which  overspread 
her  countenance  in  consequence  of  this  idea  attracted  the  observa' 
tion  of  Lady  Greystock,  who  congratulated  her  on  the  alteration 
ihat  was  already  visible  in  her  looks  ; and  inferred  from  thence 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


lo6 

that  she  was  so  well  recovered  of  her  fatigue  as  to  be  able  to  con* 
trive  a little  trimming  for  her  against  the  next  day.  This  Amanda 
cheerfully  undertook,  and  having  a quick  execution  as  well  as 
an  elegant  taste,  soon  made  progress  in  it  which  delighted  her 
labyship,  who,  to  divert  her  while  she  worked,  related  some  of 
the  many  entertaining  anecdotes  with  which  her  memory  was 
stored. 

Though  Amanda  submitted  her  beautiful  hair  to  the  hands  of  a 
friseur,  she  departed  not  from  the  elegant  simplicity  always 
conspicuous  in  her  dress.  Her  little  ornaments  were  all  arranged 
with  taste,  and  an  anxious  wish  of  appearing  to  advantage.  So 
lovely,  indeed,  did  she  appear  to  Lady  Greystock  that  her  lady- 
ship began  seriously  to  fear  she  should  not  be  forgiven  by  the 
marchioness,  or  Lady  Euphrasia,  for  having  introduced  such  an 
object  to  their  parties. 

About  six  they  reached  Portman  Square,  and  found  a large 
party  assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  After  the  first  compli- 
ments were  over  and  Amanda  introduced  to  the  marquis— not^ 
indeed,  as  a near  relation,  but  an  utter  stranger — a gentleman 
stepped  up  to  the  marchioness,  and  addressing  her  in  a low  voice, 
was  immediately  presented  by  her  to  Amanda,  as  the  Earl  of 
Cherbury. 

‘My  dear  young  lady,’  said  he,  ‘ allow  me  to  express  the  plea- 
sure I feel  at  seeing  the  daughter  of  my  worthy  friend,  Mr.  Fitz- 
alan.  Allow  me  also  to  increase  that  pleasure,’  continued  he^ 
taking  her  hand,  and  leading  her  to  a very  lovely  girl  who  sat  at 
some  distance,  ‘ by  presenting  Miss  Fitzalan  to  Lady  Araminta 
Dormer,  and  desiring  their  friendship  for  each  other.’ 

Surprised,  confused,  yet  delighted  by  notice  so  little  expected^ 
the  heart  of  Amanda  heaved  with  emotion  ; her  cheeks  mantled 
with  blushes,  and  the  tear  of  sensibility  trembled  in  her  eye. 
She  was  not,  however,  so  embarrassed  as  to  be  incapable  of  ex- 
pressing her  acknowledgments  to  his  lordship  for  his  attention^ 
and  also  to  assure  him  she  had  early  been  taught,  and  sensibility 
felt,  the  claims  he  had  upon  her  gratitude  and  respect.  He  bowed, 
as  if  to  prevent  a further  mention  of  obligations,  and  left  her 
seated  by  his  daughter,  who  had  expressed  her  pleasure  at  being 
introduced  to  her,  not  in  the  superc'lious  style  of  Lady  Euphrasia, 
but  in  the  sweet  accents  of  affability  and  tenderness. 

The  conduct  of  Lord  Cherbury  had  drawn  all  eyes  upon 
Amanda  ; and  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  regarded 
her  with  peculiar  malignancy.  The  idea,  however,  that  they 
could,  whenever  they  pleased,  deprive  her  of  his  notice,  a little 
lessoned  the  jealousy  and  mortification  it  had  excited. 

‘ Pray,  who  is  this  little  creature,’  exclaimed  Miss  Malcolm  (who 
was  a relation  of  the  marquis’s,  and,  from  being  extremely  ugly, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


18 


extremely  rich,  and  extremely  ill-natured,  was  an  immense  favor 
ite  of  Lady  Euplirasia’s),  ' that  puts  one  in  mind  of  a country 
miss,  on  her  first  appearance  at  a country  assembly,  blushing  and 
trembling  at  every  eye  she  meets?  ’ 

‘Some  kind  of  a far-off  relation  of  my  mother’s,’  replied  Lady 
Euphrasia,  ‘ whom  that  old  dowager.  Lady  Greystock,  picked  up 
in  the  wilds  of  Ireland,  and  has  absolutely  forced  upon  our  notice  ; 
though  I assure  you,  from  compassion,  we  should  have  taken  the 
poor  creature  long  ago  under  our  protection,  but  for  the  shocking 
conduct  of  her  family  to  the  marchioness,  and  the  symptoms  she 
has  already  betrayed  of  following  their  example.  It  is  really 
ridiculous  sending  her  to  London.  I dare  say  her  silly  old  father 
has  exhausted  all  his  ways  and  means  in  trying  to  render  her  de- 
cent, comforting  himself,  no  doubt,  with  the  hope  of  her  entrap- 
ping some  young  fool  of  quality,  who  may  supply  his  wants  as 
well  as  hers.’ 

‘Ay,  I suppose  all  the  stock  in  the  farm  was  sold  to  dress  her 
out,’ cried  young  Freelove,  a little,  trifling  fop,  who  leaned  on 
the  back  of  her  ladyship’s  chair.  He  was  a ward  of  Lord  Cher- 
foury,  and  his  fortune  considerable  ; but  nature  had  not  been 
quite  as  bounteous  to  him  as  the  blind  goddess.  Both  his  mind 
and  person  were  effeminate  to  a degree  of  insignificance.  All  he 
aimed  at  was — being  a man  of  fashion.  His  manners,  like  his 
dress,  were  therefore  regulated  by  it,  and  he  never  attempted  to 
approve  of  anything,  or  any  creature,  till  assured  they  were  quite 
the  ton.  He  had  danced  attendance  for  some  time  on  Lady 
Euphrasia,  and  she  encouraged  his  assiduities  in  hopes  of  effecting 
a change  in  Lord  Mortimer’s  manner.  But  had  his  lordship  even 
been  a passionate  lover,  poor  Freelove  was  not  calculated  to  in- 
spire him  with  jealousy.  ‘I  declare,’ continued  he,  surveying 
Amanda  through  an  opera-glass  which  dangled  from  his  button- 
hole, ‘if  her  father  has  nothing  to  support  him  but  the  hope  of 
her  making  a conquest  of  importance,  he  will  be  in  a sad  way, 
for,  ’pon  my  soul,  I can  see  nothing  the  girl  has  to  recommend 
her,  except  novelty  ; and  that,  you  know,  is  a charm  which  will 
lessen  every  day.  All  she  can  possibly  expect,  is  an  establish- 
ment for  a few  months  with  some  tasteless  being  who  may  like 
the  simplicity  of  her  country  look.’ 

‘ And  more  than  she  merits,’  exclaimed  Miss  Malcolm  ; ‘ I have 
ao  patience  with  such  creatures  forcing  themselves  into  society 
quite  above  them.’ 

‘I  assure  you,’ said  Lady  Euphrasia,  ‘you  would  be  astonished 
at  her  vanity  and  conceit,  if  you  knew  her.  She  considers  her- 
self a first-rate  beauty,  though  positively  anyone  may  see  she  is 
quite  the  reverse,  and  pretends  to  the  greatest  gentleness  and 
simplicity.  Then  she  has  made  some  strange  kind  of  people  (to 


188 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


1)6  sure  they  must  be)  believe  she  is  accomplished  ; though,  I dare 
say,  if  she  can  read  tolerably,  and  scrawl  out  a decent  letter,  ’ti& 
the  utmost  she  can  do.’ 

* We  will  quiz  her  after  dinner  about  her  accomplishments,’  said 
Freelove,  ‘and  have  a little  fun  with  her,’ 

‘Ay,  do,’  cried  Miss  Malcolm.  ‘We  will  ask  her  to  play  and 
sing,’  said  her  ladyship  ; ‘ for  I assure  you  she  pretends  to  excel 
in  both  ; though  from  her  father’s  poverty,  I am  certain  she  can 
know  little  of  either.  I shall  enjoy  her  confusion  of  all  things^ 
when  her  ignorance  is  detected.  ’ 

Whilst  this  conversation  was  passing,  Amanda,  in  conversing 
with  Lady  Araminta,  experienced  the  purest  pleasure.  Her  lady-^ 
ship  was  the  ‘ softened  image  ’ of  Lord  Mortimer.  Her  voice  was 
modulated  to  the  same  harmony  as  his,  and  Amanda  gazed  and 
listened  with  rapture.  On  her  confusion  abating,  her  eye  had 
wandered  round  the  room  in  quest  of  his  lordship,  but  he  was  not 
in  it.  At  every  stir,  near  the  door,  her  heart  fluttered  at  the  idea 
of  seeing  him ; nor  was  this  idea  relinquished  till  summoned  to 
dinner.  She  fortunately  procured  a seat  next  Lady  Araminta, 
which  prevented  her  thinking  the  time  spent  at  dinner  tedious. 
In  the  evening  the  rooms  were  crowded  with  company,  but  Lord 
Mortimer  appeared  not  among  tlie  brilliant  assembly.  Yet  the 
pang  of  disappointment  was  softened  to  Amanda  by  his  absence,, 
intimating  that  he  was  not  anxious  for  the  society  of  Lady  Eu- 
phrasia. True,  business,  or  a prior  engagement,  might  have  pre- 
vented his  coming;  but  she,  as  is  natural,  flxed  on  the  idea  most; 
flattering  to  herself. 

Lady  Euphrasia,  in  pursuance  of  the  plan  laid  against  Amanda,, 
led  the  way  to  the  music-room,  attended  by  a large  party ; as  Free- 
love had  intimated  to  some  of  the  beaux  and  belles  her  ladyship 
and  he  were  going  to  quiz  an  ignorant  Irish  country  girl.  Lady 
Euphrasia  sat  down  to  the  harpsichord,  that  she  might  have  a 
better  pretext  for  asking  Amanda  to  play.  Freelove  seated  him- 
self by  the  latter,  and  began  a conversation  which,  he  thought,, 
would  effectually  embarrass  her ; but  it  had  quite  a contrary  effect, 
rendering  him  so  extremely  ridiculous  as  to  excite  a universal 
laugh  at  his  expense. 

Amanda  soon  perceived  his  intention  in  addressing  her;  and 
also  that  Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm  were  privy  to  it,  hav- 
ing caught  the  signiflcant  looks  which  passed  among  them. 
Though  tremblingly  alive  to  every  feeling  of  modesty,  she  had 
too  much  sense,  and  real  nobleness  of  soul,  to  allow  the  illiberal 
sallies  of  impertience  to  divest  her  of  composure. 

‘ Have  you  seen  any  of  the  curiosities  of  London,  my  dear?  ^ 
exclaimed  Freelove,  lolling  back  in  his  chair,  and  contemplating 
the  luster  of  his  buckles,  unconscious  of  the  ridicule  he  excited. 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


189 


* I think  I have,’  said  Amanda,  somewhat  archly,  and  glancing 
at  him,  ‘ quite  an  original  in  its  kind.’  Her  look,  as  well  as  the 
emphasis  on  her  words,  excited  another  laugh  at  his  expense, 
which  threw  him  into  a momentary  confusion. 

*I  think,’  said  he,  as  he  recovered  from  it,  ‘ the  Monument 
and  the  Tower  would  be  prodigious  fine  sights  to  you,  and  I make 
it  a particular  request  that  I may  be  included  in  your  party  when- 
ever you  visit  them,  particularly  the  last  place.’ 

‘And  why,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘should  I take  the  trouble  of 
visiting  wild  beasts,  when  every  day  I may  see  animals  equally 
strange,  and  not  half  so  mischievous?  ’ 

Freelove,  insensible  as  he  was,  could  not  mistake  the  meaning  of 
Amanda’s  words,  and  he  left  her  with  a mortified  air,  being,  to 
use  his  own  phrase,  ‘ completely  done  up.’ 

Lady  Euphrasia,  now  rising  from  the  harpsichord,  requested 
Amanda  to  take  her  place  at  it,  saying,  with  an  ironical  air,  ‘ her 
performance  [which  indeed  was  shocking]  would  make  hers  ap- 
pear to  amazing  advantage.’ 

Diffident  of  her  own  abilities,  Amanda  begged  to  be  excused. 
But  when  Miss  Malcolm,  with  an  earnestness  even  oppressive,  joined 
her  entreaties  to  Lady  Euphrasia’s  she  could  no  longer  refuse. 

‘ I suppose,’  said  her  ladyship,  following  her  to  the  instrument, 
these  songs,’  presenting  her  some  trifling  ones,  ‘ will  answer  you 
better  than  the  Italian  music  before  you?  ’ 

Amanda  made  no  reply,  but  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  book 
to  a lesson  much  more  difficult  than  that  Lady  Euphrasia  had 
played.  Her  touch  at  first  was  tremulous  and  weak,  but  she  was 
too  susceptible  of  the  powers  of  harmony  not  soon  to  be  inspired 
by  it;  and  gradually  her  style  became  so  masterly  and  elegant,  as 
to  excite  universal  admiration,  except  in  the  bosoms  of  those  who 
had  hoped  to  place  her  in  a ludicrous  situation.  Their  invidious 
scheme,  instead  of  depressing,  had  only  served  to  render  excellence 
conspicuous;  and  that  mortification  they  destined  for  another, 
fell  upon  themselves.  When  the  lesson  was  concluded,  some 
gentlemen  who  either  were,  or  pretended  to  be,  musical  connois' 
seurs,  entreated  her  to  sing.  She  chose  a plaintive  Italian  air,  and 
the  exquisite  taste  and  sweetness  with  which  she  sung,  equally  as- 
tonished and  delighted.  Nor  was  admiration  confined  to  the  ac- 
complishments she  displayed.  The  soft  expression  of  her  counten* 
ance,  which  seemed  accordant  to  the  harmonious  sounds  that 
issued  from  her  lips,  was  viewed  with  pleasure  and  praised  with 
energy;  and  she  rose  from  the  harpsichord  covered  with  blushes 
from  the  applause  which  stole  around  her.  The  gentlemen 
gathered  around  Lady  Euphrasia,  to  inquire  who  the  beautiful 
stranger  was,  and  she  gave  them  pretty  much  the  same  accounf 
she  had  already  done  to  Miss  Malcolm. 


190 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


The  rag‘e  and  disappointment  of  that  young*  lady,  and  her  lady* 
ship,  could  scarcely  be  concealed.  ‘ I declare,  I never  knew  any* 
thing  so  monstrously  absurd,’ exclaimed  Lady  Euphrasia,  ‘ as  tc 
let  a girl  in  her  situation  learn  such  things,  except,  indeed,  it  was 
to  qualify  her  for  a governess  or  an  opera  singer.’ 

‘Ay,  I suppose,  ’ said  Miss  Malcolm,^*  we  shall  soon  hear  her 
quavering  away  at  one  of  the  theaters  ; for  no  person  of  fashion 
would  really  intrust  her  children  to  so  confident  a creature.’ 

The  fair  object  of  their  disquietude  gladly  accompanied  Lady 
Araminta  into  another  room.  Several  gentlemen  followed,  and 
crowded  about  her  chair,  offering  that  adulation  which  they  were 
accustomed  to  find  acceptable  at  the  shrine  of  beauty. 

To  Amanda,  however,  it  was  irksome,  not  only  from  its  absurd 
extravagance,  but  as  it  interrupted  her  conversation  with  Lady 
Araminta.  The  marchioness,  however,  who  critically  watched 
her  motions,  soon  relieved  her  from  the  troublesome  assiduities  of 
the  beaux,  by  placing  them  at  card-tables.  Not,  indeed,  from  any 
good-natured  motive,  but  she  could  not  bear  that  Amanda  should 
have  so  much  attention  paid  her,  and  flattered  herself  she  would 
be  vexed  by  losing  it. 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  Lady  Araminta  mentioned  Ireland* 
She  had  a faint  remembrance  of  Castle  Carberry,  she  said,  and 
had  been  half  tempted  to  accompany  the  marquis  and  his  family 
in  their  late  excursion.  Her  brother,  she  added,  had  almost  made 
her  promise  to  visit  the  castle  with  him  the  ensuing  summer. 

‘ You  have  seen  Lord  Mortimer,  to  be  sure?’  continued  her  lady- 
ship. 

‘ Yes,  madam,’  faltered  Amanda,  while  her  face  was  overspread 
with  a crimson  hue.  Her  ladyship  was  too  penetrating  not  to 
perceive  her  confusion,  and  it  gave  rise  to  a conjecture  of  some- 
thing more  than  a slight  acquaintance  being  between  his  lordship 
and  Amanda.  The  melancholy  he  had  betrayed  on  his  return 
from  Ireland  had  excited  the  raillery  of  her  ladyship,  till  con- 
vinced, by  the  discomposure  he  showed  whenever  she  attempted  to 
inquire  into  the  occasion  of  it,  that  it  proceeded  from  a source  truly 
interesting  to  his  feelings.  She  knew  of  the  alliance  her  father 
had  projected  for  him  with  the  Roslin  family — a project  she  never 
approved  of,  for  Lady  Euphrasia  was  truly  disagreeable  to  her ; 
and  a soul  like  Mortimer’s,  tender,  liberal,  and  sincere,  she  knew 
could  never  experience  the  smallest  degree  of  happiness  with  a 
being  so  uncongenial  in  every  respect  as  was  Lady  Euphrasia 
to  him.  She  loved  her  brother  with  the  truest  tenderness,  and 
secretly  believed  he  was  attached  in  Ireland.  She  wished  to  gain 
his  confidence,  yet  would  not  solicit  it,  because  she  knew  she  had 
it  not  in  her  power  essentially  to  serve  him.  Her  arguments,  she 
was  convinced,  would  have  little  weight  with  Lord  Cherbury 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


191 


who  had  often  expressed  to  her  his  anxiety  for  a connection  with 
the  Roslin  family.  With  the  loveliness  of  Amanda’s  person,  with 
the  elegance  of  her  manner,  she  was  immediately  charmed.  As 
she  conversed  with  her,  esteem  was  added  to  admiration,  and  she 
believed  that  Mortimer  would  not  have  omitted  mentioning  to  her 
the  beautiful  daughter  of  his  father’s  agent,  had  he  not  feared  be- 
traying too  much  emotion  at  her  name.  She  appeared  to  Lady 
Araminta  just  the  kind  of  woman  he  would  adore  ; just  the  being^ 
that  would  answer  all  the  ideas  of  perfection  (romantic  ideas  she 
had  called  them)  which  he  had  declared  necessary  to  captivate  his 
heart.  Lady  Araminta  already  felt  for  her  unspeakable  tender- 
ness. In  the  softness  of  her  looks,  in  the  sweetness  of  her  voice 
there  were  resistless  charms  ; and  she  felt  that,  if  oppressed  by 
sorrow,  Amanda  Fitzalan,  above  all  other  beings,  was  the  one  she 
would  select  to  give  her  consolation.  The  confusion  she  betrayed 
at  the  mention  of  Mortimer,  made  her  ladyship  suspect  she  was 
the  cause  of  his  dejection.  She  involuntarily  fastened  her  eyes 
upon  her  face,  as  if  to  penetrate  the  recesses  of  her  heart,  yet  with 
a tenderness  which  seemed  to  say  she  would  pity  the  secret  she 
might  there  discover. 

Lord  Cherbury,  at  this  moment  of  embarrassment  to  Amanda, 
approached.  He  said,  ‘ He  had  just  been  making  a request  and 
an  apology  to  Lady  Greystock,  and  was  now  come  to  repeat  them 
to  her.  The  former  was,  to  meet  the  marquis’s  family  at  his  house 
the  next  day  at  dinner  ; and  the  latter  was,  to  excuse  so  unceremo- 
nious an  invitation,  which  he  had  ’oeen  induced  to  make  on  Lady 
Araminta’s  account,  who  was  obliged  to  leave  town  the  day  after 
the  next,  and  had,  therefore,  no  time  for  the  usual  etiquette  of 
visiting.’ 

Amanda  bowed.  This  invitation  was  more  pleasing  than  one  of 
more  form  would  have  been.  It  seemed  to  indicate  friendship,  and 
a desire  to  have  the  intimacy  between  her  and  his  daughter  culti- 
vated. It  gave  her  also  a hope  of  seeing  Lord  Mortimer.  All  these 
suggestions  inspired  her  with  uncommci...  animation,  and  she  en- 
tered into  a lively  conversation  with  Lord  Cherbury,  who  had  in' 
finite  vivacity  in  his  look  and  manner.  Lady  Araminta  observed 
the  attention  he  paid  her  with  pleasure.  A prepossession  in  her 
favor,  she  trusted,  might  produce  pleasing  consequences. 

Lady  Greystock  at  length  rose  to  depart.  Amanda  received  an 
affectionate  adieu  from  Lady  Araminta  ; and  Lord  Cherbury  at- 
tended the  ladies  to  their  carriage.  On  driving  off.  Lady  Grey- 
stock observed,  what  a charming,  polite  m^n  his  lordship  was  ; 
and,  in  short,  threw  out  such  hints,  and  entered  into  such  a warm 
eulogium  on  his  merits,  that  Amanda  began  to  think  he  would  not 
find  it  very  difficult  to  prevail  on  her  ladyship  to  enter  once  more 
the  temple  of  Hymen. 


192 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Amanda  retired  to  her  chamber  in  a state  of  greater  happiness 
than  for  a long  period  before  she  had  experienced  ; but  it  was  a 
happiness  which  rather  agitated  than  soothed  the  feelings,  partic- 
ularly hers,  which  were  so  susceptible  of  every  impression,  that 

They  turned  at  the  touch  of  joy  or  woe, 

And  turning  trembled  too. 

Her  present  happiness  was  the  offspring  of  hope,  and  therefore 
peculiarly  liable  to  disappointment  ; a hope  derived  from  the  at- 
tention of  Lord  Cherbury,  and  the  tenderness  of  Lady  Araminta, 
that  the  fond  wishes  of  her  heart  might  yet  be  realized  ; wishes, 
again  believed  from  hearing  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  dejection,  which 
his  sister  had  touched  upon,  and  from  his  absenting  himself  from 
the  marquis’s,  which  were  not  uncongenial  to  those  he  himself 
entertained.  She  sat  down  to  acquaint  her  father  with  the  partic- 
ulars of  the  day  she  had  passed  : for  her  chief  consolation,  in  her 
absence  from  him,  was  in  the  idea  of  writing  and  hearing  con- 
stantly. Her  writing  finished,  she  sat  by  the  fire,  meditating  on 
the  interview  she  expected  would  take  place  on  the  ensuing  day, 
till  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  watchmen,  proclaiming  past  three 
o’clock,  roused  her  from  her  reverie.  She  smiled  at  the  abstrac- 
tion of  her  thoughts,  and  retired  to  bed  to  dream  of  felicity. 

So  calm  were  her  slumbers — so  delightful  her  dreams — that  Sol 
had  long  shot  his  timorous  ray  into  her  chamber  ere  she  awoke. 
Her  spirits  still  continued  serene  and  animated.  On  descending  to 
the  drawing-room,  she  found  La^y  Greystock  just  entering  it. 
After  breakfast,  they  went  out  in  her  ladyship's  carriage  to  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  town.  All  was  new  to  Amanda,  who,  during 
her  former  residence  in  it,  had  been  entirely  confined  to  lodgings 
in  a retired  street.  She  wondered  at,  and  was  amused  by,  the 
crowds  continually  passing  and  repassing.  About  four  they  re- 
turned to  dress.  Amanda  began  the  labors  of  the  toilet  with  a 
beating  heart  ; nor  were  its  quick  pulsations  decreased  on  entering 
Lady  Greystock’s  carriage,  which  in  a few  minutes  conveyed  her 
to  Lord  Cherbury’s  house  in  St.  James’s  Square.  She  followed 
her  ladyship  with  tottering  steps  ; and  the  first  object  she  saw  on 
entering  the  drawing-room  was  Mortimer  standing  near  the  door 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Begjone  my  cares  ; I give  you  to  the  winds.—RowB. 

In  the  drawing-room  were  already  assembled  the  marquis,  mar- 
chioness, Lady  Euphrasia,  Miss  Malcolm,  and  Freelove.  Lady 
Araminta  perceived  in  the  hesitating  voice  of  Amanda  the  emo- 
tions which  agitated  her,  and  which  were  not  diminished  when 
Lord  Cherbury,  taking  her  trembling  hand,  said  ; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


19S 


‘ Mortimer,  I presume  you  have  already  seen  Miss  Fitzalan  in 
Ireland  ? ’ 

‘I  have,  my  lord,’  replied  Mortimer,  bowing,  and  at  the  same 
time  approaching  to  pay  his  compliments. 

Every  eye  in  the  room,  except  Lord  Cherbury’s  and  Freelove’s, 
was  now  turned  upon  his  lordship  and  Amanda,  and  thought,  in 
the  expressive  countenances  of  both,  enough  could  be  read  to  con- 
firm their  suspicions  of  a mutual  attachment  subsisting  between 
them. 

Amanda,  when  seated,  endeavored  to  recover  from  her  con- 
fusion. Miss  Malcolm,  to  prevent  Lord  Mortimer’s  taking  a seat 
by  her,  which  she  thought  she  perceived  him  inclined  to  do,  beck- 
oned him  to  her,  and  contrived  to  engage  him  in  trifling  chat  till 
they  were  summoned  to  dinner.  On  receiving  his  hand,  which 
he  could  not  avoid  offering,  to  lead  her  to  the  parlor,  she  cast  a 
look  of  exultation  at  Amanda.  Lady  Araminta,  perceiving  all 
the  gentlemen  engaged,  good-humoredly  put  her  arm  within 
Amanda’s,  and  said  she  would  be  her  chaperon  on  the  present 
occasion.  Lord  Mortimer  quitted  Miss  Malcolm  the  moment  he 
had  procured  her  a seat,  though  she  desired  him  to  take  one  be- 
tween her  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  and,  passing  to  the  other  side, 
placed  himself  by  Amanda.  This  action  pleased  her  as  much  as 
it  mortified  them.  It  embarrassed  her,  however,  a little  ; but  per- 
ceiving the  scrutinizing  earnestness  with  which  the  marchioness 
and  Lady  Euphrasia  regarded  her,  she  exerted  her  spirits,  and 
was  soon  able  to  join  in  the  general  conversation  which  Lord 
Mortimer  promoted. 

The  unexpected  arrival  of  Amanda  in  London  astonished,  and, 
notwithstanding  his  resentment,  delighted  him.  His  sister,  when 
they  were  alone  in  the  morning,  had  mentioned  her  with  all  the 
fervency  of  praise.  Her  plaudits  gave  to  him  a sensation  of  satis- 
fied pride,  which  convinced  him  he  was  not  less  than  ever  inter- 
ested about  Amanda.  Since  his  return  from  Ireland,  he  had  been 
distracted  by  incertitude  and  anxiety  about  her.  The  innocence, 
the  purity,  the  tenderness  she  had  displayed,  were  perpetually  re- 
curring to  his  memory.  It  was  impossible,  he  thought,  they 
could  be  feigned,  and  he  began  to  think  the  apparent  mystery  of 
her  conduct  she  could  have  satisfactorily  explained — that  design- 
edly she  had  not  avoided  him — and  that,  but  for  the  impetuosity 
of  his  own  passions,  which  had  induced  his  precipitate  departure, 
he  might,  ere  this,  have  had  all  his  doubts  removed.  Tortured 
with  incessant  regret  for  this  departure,  he  would  have  returned 
immediately  to  Ireland,  but  at  this  period  found  it  impossible  to 
do  so,  without  exciting  inquiries  from  Lord  Cherbury,  which,  at 
present,  he  did  not  choose  to  answer.  He  had  planned  an  excur- 
sion thither  the  ensuing  summer  with  Lady  Araminta.  determined 


194 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


no  longer  to  endure  his  suspense.  He  now  almost  believed  the 
peculiar  interposition  of  Providence  had  brought  Amanda  to  town, 
thus  affording  him  another  opportunity  of  having  his  anxiety  re- 
lieved, and  the  chief  obstacle,  perhaps  to  his,  and  he  flattered  him- 
self also,  to  her  happiness,  removed  ; for,  if  assured  her  precipitate 
journey  from  Wales  was  occasioned  by  no  motive  she  need  blush 
to  avow,  he  felt  he  should  be  better  enabled  to  combat  the  difficulty 
he  was  convinced  his  father  would  throw  in  the  way  of  their 
anion.  Notwithstanding  Lady  Araminta’s  endeavors  to  gain  his 
implicit  confidence,  he  resolved  to  withhold  it  from  her,  lest  she 
should  incur  even  the  temporary  displeasure  of  Lord  Cherbury, 
by  the  warm  interest  he  knew  she  would  take  in  his  affairs,  if  once 
informed  of  them. 

Amanda  looked  thinner  and  paler  than  when  he  had  seen  her 
in  Ireland — yet,  if  possible,  more  interesting  from  these  circum- 
stances ; and  from  the  soft  glance  she  had  involuntarily  directed 
toward  him  at  her  entrance,  he  was  tempted  to  think  he  had,  in 
some  degree,  contributed  to  rob  her  lovely  cheek  of  its  bloom  ; 
and  this  idea  rendered  her  dearer  than  ever  to  him.  Scarcely 
could  he  restrain  the  rapture  he  felt  on  seeing  her  within  the  nec- 
essary bounds  ; scarcely  could  he  believe  the  scene  which  had 
given  rise  to  his  happiness  real.  His  heart,  at  the  moment  melt- 
ing with  tenderness,  sighed  for  the  period  of  explanation,  which  he 
trusted,  which  he  hoped,  would  also  be  the  period  of  reconciliation. 

The  gentlemen  joined  the  ladies  about  tea  time,  and  as  no  ad- 
ditional company  was  expected.  Lady  Euphrasia  proposed  a party 
to  the  Pantheon.  This  was  at  once  agreed  to.  Amanda  was 
delighted  at  the  proposal,  as  it  not  only  promised  to  gratify  her 
curiosity,  but  to  give  Lord  Mortimer  an  opportunity  of  address- 
ing her,  as  she  saw  he  wished,  but  vainly  attempted,  at  home. 
The  marquis  and  Lord  Cherbury  declined  going.  Lady  Greystock, 
who  had  not  ordered  her  carriage  till  a much  later  hour,  accepted 
a place  in  the  marchioness’s. 

Neither  Lady  Euphrasia  nor  Miss  Malcolm  could  bear  the  idea 
of  Lord  Mortimer  and  Amanda  going  in  the  same  carriage,  as 
the  presence  of  Lady  Araminta,  they  were  convinced,  would  not 
prevent  their  using  an  opportunity  so  propitious  for  conversing 
as  they  wished.  Lady  Euphrasia,  therefore,  with  sudden  eager- 
ness, declared  she  and  Miss  Malcolm  would  resign  their  seats  in 
the  marchioness’s  carriage  to  Miss  Fitzalan  and  Preelove  for  the 
pleasure  of  accompanying  Lady  Araminta  in  hers.  The  mar- 
chioness, who  conjectured  her  daughter’s  motive  for  this  new 
arrangement,  seconded  it,  to  the  secret  regret  of  Amanda,  and  the 
visible  chagrin  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Amanda,  however, consoled  her- 
self for  this  disappointment,  by  reflecting  on  the  pleasure  she  should 
enjoy  in  a few  minutes,  when  freed  from  the  disagreeable  observa 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


195 


tion  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  ; her  reflections  were 
not  in  the  least  interrupted  by  any  convei*sation  being  addressed 
to  her.  The  marchioness  and  Lady  Grey  stock  chatted  together,  and 
Freelove  amused  himself  humming  a song,  as  if  for  the  purpose 
of  mortifying  Amanda  by  his  inattention.  When  the  carriage 
stopped,  he  assisted  the  former  ladies  out  ; but  as  if  forgetting 
such  a being  existed  as  Amanda,  he  went  on  with  them.  She  was 
descending  the  steps  when  Lord  Mortimer  pressed  forward,  and 
snatching  her  hand,  softly  exclaimed,  ‘We  have  met  again,  and 
neither  envy  nor  malice  shall  again  separate  us.’  A beautiful 
glow  overspread  the  countenance  of  Amanda,  her  hand  trembled 
in  his,  and  she  felt  in  that  moment  recompensed  for  her  former 
disappointment,  and  elevated  above  the  little  insolence  of  Free- 
love. Lord  Mortimer  handed  her  to  his  sister,  who  w^as  waiting 
to  receive  her,  and  they  proceeded  to  the  room.  Lady  Euphrasia 
entered  it  with  a temper  unfitted  for  enjoyment.  She  w^as  con- 
vinced the  whole  soul  of  Mortimer  was  devoted  to  Amanda,  and 
she  trembled  from  the  violent  and  malignant  feelings  that  convic- 
tion excited.  From  the  moment  he  entered  the  carriage  till  he 
quitted  it  he  had  remained  silent,  notwithstanding  all  her  efibrts 
and  Miss  Malcolm’s  to  force  him  into  conversation.  He  left  them 
as  soon  as  they  reached  the  Pantheon  to  watch  the  marchioness’s 
carriage,  which  followed  theirs,  and  on  rejoining  Amanda  he 
attached  himself  entirely  to  her,  without  ai\y  longer  appearing 
anxious  to  conceal  his  predilection  for  her.  He  had,  indeed,  for- 
gotten the  necessity  there  was  for  concealing  it;  all  his  feelings^ 
all  his  ideas,  were  engrossed  by  ecstasy  and  tenderness.  The 
novelty,  the  brilliancy  of  the  scene,  excited  surprise  and  pleasure 
in  Amanda,  and  he  was  delighted  with  the  animated  description 
she  gave  of  the  efiPect  it  produced  upon  her  mind.  In  her  he 
found  united  exalted  sense,  lively  fancy,  and  an  uncorrupted  taste 
he  forgot  that  the  eyes  of  jealousy  and  malevolence  were  on  them: 
he  forgot  every  object  but  herself. 

But,  alas  ! poor  Amanda  was  doomed  to  disappointment  this 
evening.  Lady  Greystock,  according  to  a hint  she  had  received, 
after  a few  rounds,  stepped  up  to  her,  and  declared  she  must  ac* 
company  her  to  a seat,  as  she  was  convinced  her  health  was  yet 
too  weak  to  bear  much  fatigue.  Amanda  assured  her  she  was  not 
in  the  least  fatigued,  and  that  she  would  prefer  walking  ; besides, 
she  had  half-promised  Lord  Mortimer  to  dance  with  him.  This 
Lady  Greystock  absolutely  declared  she  would  not  consent  to, 
though  Lady  Araminta,  on  whose  arm  Amanda  leaned,  pleaded 
for  her  friend,  assuring  her  ladyship  ‘ she  would  take  care  Miss 
Fitzalan  should  not  injure  herself.’ 

‘Ah,  you  young  people,’  said  Lady  Greystock,  ‘are  so  carried 
away  with  spirits,  you  never  reflect  on  consequences  ; but  1 de 


196 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


dare,  as  she  is  intrusted  to  my  care,  I could  not  answer  it  to  my 
conscience  to  let  her  run  into  any  kind  of  danger.’ 

Lady  Araminta  remonstrated  with  her  ladyship,  and  Amanda 
would  have  joined,  but  that  she  feared  her  real  motive  for  doing 
so  would  have  been  discovered.  She  perceived  the  party  were  de- 
tained from  proceeding  on  her  account,  and  immediately  offered 
her  arm  to  Lady  Greystock,  and  accompanied  her  and  the  mar- 
chioness to  a seat.  Lady  Euphrasia,  catching  hold  of  Lady 
Araminta’s  arm,  hurried  her,  at  the  same  instant,  into  the  crowd  ; 
and  Miss  Malcolm,  as  if  by  chance,  laid  her  hand  on  Lord  Mor- 
timer, and  thus  compelled  him  to  attend  her  party.  ’She  saw  him, 
however,  in  the  course  of  the  round,  prepared  to  fly  off  ; but 
when  they  had  completed  it,  to  her  inexpressible  joy,  the  situation 
of  Amanda  made  him  relinquish  his  intention,  as  to  converse 
with  her  was  utterly  impossible  ; for  the  marchioness  had  placed 
her  between  Lady  Greystock  and  herself,  and,  under  the  pretence 
of  frequently  addressing  her  ladyship,  was  continually  leaning 
across  Amanda,  so  as  to  exclude  her  almost  from  observation, 
thus  rendering  her  situation,  exclusive  of  the  regret  at  being  sepa- 
rated from  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lady  Araminta,  highly  disagree- 
able. The  marchioness  enjoyed  a malicious  joy  in  the  uneasiness 
she  saw  she  gave  Amanda.  She  deemed  it  but  a slight  retaliation 
for  the  uneasiness  she  had  given  Lady  Euphrasia — a trifling 
punishment  for  the  admiration  she  had  excited. 

Amanda,  indeed,  while  surveying  the  scene  around  her  with 
wonder  and  delight,  had  herself  been  an  object  of  critical  atten- 
tion and  inquiry.  She  was  followed,  universally  admired,  and 
allowed  to  be  the  finest  girl  that  had  appeared  for  a long  season. 

Relieved  of  her  presence.  Lady  EuphVasia’s  spirits  began  to  re- 
vive, and  her  good-humor  to  return.  She  laughed  maliciously 
with  Miss  Malcolm  at  the  disappointment  of  Lord  Mortimer  and 
Amanda.  After  a few  rounds.  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  in  company 
with  another  gentleman,  passed  them.  He  was,  to  use  Miss  Mal- 
colm’s own  phrase,  / an  immense  favorite  with  her,’  and  she  had 
long  meditated  and  attempted  the  conquest  of  his  heart.  The  at- 
tention which  politeness  obliged  him  to  show,  and  the  compli- 
ments she  sometimes  compelled  him  to  pay,  she  flattered  herself, 
were  intimations  the  success  of  her  scheme.  Lady  Euphrasia, 
notwithstanding  he.  intentions  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer,  and 
her  professed  friendship  for  Miss  Malcolm,  felt  an  ardent  desire 
to  have  Sir  Charles  enrolled  in  the  list  of  her  admirers,  and  both 
ladies  determined  he  should  not  again  pass  without  noticing  them. 
They  accordingly  watched  his  approach,  and  when  they  again 
met  addressed  him  in  a manner  that,  to  a man  at  all  interested 
about  either,  would  have  been  truly  flattering.  As  this,  howev'er, 
was  not  the  young  baronet’s  case,  after  paying  his  compliments 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


191 


In  a general  way  to  the  whole  party,  he  was  making  his  parting 
bow,  when  his  companion,  pulling  him  by  the  sleeve,  bid  him 
observe  a beautiful  girl  sitting  opposite  to  them.  They  had 
stopped  near  the  marchioness’s  seat,  and  it  was  to  Amanda  Sir 
Charles’s  eyes  were  directed. 

‘ Gracious  heaven  ! ’ cried  he,  starting,  while  his  cheek  was 
suffused  with  a glow  of  pleasure  ; ‘ can  this  be  possible  ? Can 
this  in  reality,’  advancing  to  her  seat,  ‘be  Miss  Fitzalan  ? This 
surely,’  continued  he,  ‘ is  a meeting  as  fortunate  as  unexpected. 
But  for  it,  I should  have  been  posting  back  to  Ireland  in  a day  or 
two.’ 

Amanda  blushed  deeply  at  his  thus  publicly  declaring  her 
power  of  regulating  his  actions.  Her  confusion  restored  that 
recollection  his  joyful  surprise  had  deprived  him  of,  and  he  ad- 
dressed the  marchioness  and  Lady  Greystock.  The  former 
haughtily  bowed,  without  speaking  ; and  the  latter,  laughing 
significantly,  said,  ‘ she  really  imagined  ecstasy  on  Miss  Fitz- 
alan s account  had  made  him  forget  anyone  else  was  present. 
The  situation  of  Amanda  was  tantalizing  in  an  extreme  degree  to 
Sir  Charles.  It  precluded  all  conversation,  and  frequently  hid 
her  from  his  view,  as  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Greystock  still 
continued  their  pretended  whispers.  Sir  Charles  had  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  marchioness’s  disposition,  and  quickly  perceived  the 
motive  of  her  present  conduct. 

‘ Your  ladyship  is  kind,’  said  he,  ‘in  trying  to  hide  Miss  Fitz- 
alan, as  no  doubt  you  are  conscious  ’tis  not  a slight  heartache 
she  would  give  to’  some  of  the  belles  present  this  evening.  But 
why,’  continued  he,  turning  to  Amanda,  “ do  you  prefer  sitting 
to  walking  ? ’ 

Amanda  made  no  answer  ; but  a glance  from  her  expressive 
eyes  to  the  ladies  informed  him  of  the  reason. 

Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm,  provoked  at  the  abrupt 
departure  of  Sir  Charles,  had  hurried  on  ; but  scarcely  had  they 
proceeded  a few  yards  ere  envy  and  curiosity  induced  them  to 
turn  back.  Lady  Araminta  perceived  their  chagrin,  and  secretly 
enjoyed  it.  Sir  Charles,  who  had  been  looking  impatiently  for 
their  approach,  the  moment  he  perceived  them,  entreated  Amanda 
to  join  them. 

‘Let  me,’  cried  he,  presenting  his  hand,  ‘be  your  knight  on 
the  present  occasion,  and  deliver  you  from  what  may  be  called 
absolute  captivity.’ 

She  hesitated  not  to  accept  his  offer.  The  continual  buzz  in  the 
room,  with  the  passing  and  repassing  of  the  company,  had  made 
her  head  giddy.  She  deemed  no  apology  requisite  to  her  com- 
panions ; and,  quitting  her  seat,  hastened  forward  to  Lady 
Araminta,  who  had  stopped  for  her.  A crowd  at  that  moment^ 


193 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


intervening  between  them,  retarded  her  progress.  Sir  Charles, 
pressing  her  hand  with  fervor,  availed  himself  of  this  opportunity 
to  express  his  pleasure  at  their  unexpected  meeting. 

‘Ah  ! how  little,’  cried  he,  ‘did  I imagine  there  was  such 
happiness  in  store  for  me  this  evening.’ 

‘Sir  Charles,’ said  Amanda,  endeavoring,  though  in  vain,  to 
withdraw  her  hand,  ‘ you  have  learned  the  art  of  flattering  since 
your  return  to  England.’ 

‘I  wish,’  cried  he,  ‘I  had  learned  the  art  of  expressing,  as  I 
wish,  the  sentiments  I feel.’ 

Lord  Mortimer,  who  had  made  way  through  the  crowd  for  the 
iadies,  at  this  instant  appeared.  He  seemed  to  recoil  at  the  situa- 
tion of  Amanda,  whose  hand  was  yet  detained  in  Sir  Charles’s 
while  the  soft  glow  and  confusion  of  her  face  gave  at  least  a 
suspicion  of  the  language  she  was  listening  to. 

On  rejoining  the  party  she  hoped  again  to  have  been  joined  by 
Lord  Mortimer  ; but  even  if  inclined  for  this.  Sir  Charles  totally 
prevented  him.  His  lordship  deserted  them,  yet  almost  contin- 
ually contrived  to  intercept  the  party,  and  his  eyes  were  always 
turned  on  Amanda  and  Sir  Charles.  He  was  really  displeased 
with  her.  He  thought  she  might  as  well  have  left  her  sdat  before 
as  after  Sir  Charles’s  appearance,  and  he  resolved  to  watch  her 
closely.  She  was  asked  to  dance  by  Sir  Charles,  and  several 
other  gentlemen,  but  refused,  and  Lady  Araminta,  on  her  account, 
followed  her  example.  Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm  either 
were  too  much  discomposed,  or  not  asked  by  gentlemen  they 
liked,  to  join  the  festive  group.  ’ 

Amanda  from  being  disappointed,  soon  grew  languid,  and 
endeavored  to  check,  with  more  than  usual  seriousness,  the 
ardent  expressions  of  Sir  Charles,  who  repeatedly  declared,  ‘ he 
had  hurried  over  the  affairs'  which  brought  him  to  England 
entirely  on  her  account,  as  he  thought  every  day  an  age  until  they 
again  met.’ 

She  was  rejoiced  when  Lady  Araminta  proposed  returning 
Lome.  Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm  had  no  longer  a desire 
to  accompany  her  ladyship,  as  they  believed  Lord  Mortimer 
already  gone,  and  she  and  Amanda  therefore  returned  alone. 
Sir  Charles  was  invited  to  supper,  an  invitation  he  joyfully 
accepted,  and  promised  to  follow  her  ladyship  as  soon  as  he  had 
apprised  the  party  he  came  with  of  his  intention. 

Lady  Araminta  and  Amanda  arrived  some  time  before  the  rest 
of  the  party.  Her  ladyship  said,  ‘ that  her  leaving  town  was  to 
attend  the  nuptials  of  a particular  friend,’  and  was  expressing 
her  hopes,  that  on  her  return,  she  should  often  be  favored  with 
the  company  of  Amanda,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened  and 
Lord  Mortimer  entered.  He  looked  pleased  and  surprised,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


199 


taking- a seat  on  the  sofa  between  them,  exclaimed,  as  he  regarded 
them  with  unutterable  tenderness,  ‘surely  one  moment  like 
this  is  worth  whole  hours  such  as  we  have  lately  spent.  May  I,‘ 
looking  at  Amanda,  ‘ say  that  chance  is  now  as  propitious  to  me 
as  it  was  some  time  ago  to  Sir  Charles  Bingley?  Tell  me/ 
continued  he,  ‘ were  you  not  agreeably  surprised  to-night  ? ’ 

‘ By  the  Pantheon,  undoubtedly,  my  lord.’ 

‘ And  by  Sir  Charles  Bingley  ? ’ 

‘ No.  He  is  too  slight  an  acquaintance  either  to  give  pleasure 

by  his  presence  or  pain  by  his  absence.’ 

This  was  just  what  Lord  Mortimer  wanted  to  hear.  The  looks 
of  Amanda,  and,  above  all,  the  manner  in  which  she  had  received 
the  attentions  of  Sir  Charles,  evinced  her  sincerity.  The  shadow 
of  jealousy  removed.  Lord  Mortimer  recovered  all  his  animation. 
Never  does  the  mind  feel  so  light,  so  truly  happy,  as  when  a pain- 
ful doubt  is  banished  from  it. 

‘ Miss  Fitzalan,  ’ said  Lady  Araminta,  recurring  to  what  Amanda 
had  just  said,  ‘can  see  few  beings,  like  herself,  capable  of  exciting 
immediate  esteem.  For  my  own  part,  I cannot  persuade  myself 
that  she  is  an  acquaintance  of  but  two  days,  I feel  such  an  interest 
in  her  welfare,  such  a sisterly  regard.  ’ She  paused,  and  looked  ex- 
pressively on  her  brother  and  Amanda.  His  fine  eyes  beamed  the 
liveliest  pleasure. 

‘ Oh,  my  sister,  ’ cried  he,  ‘ encourage  that  sisterly  affection.  Who 
so  worthy  of  possessing  it  as  Miss  Fitzalan  ? and  who  but  Amanda,’ 
continued  he,  passing  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  softly  whisper- 
ing to  her,  ‘ shall  have  a right  to  claim  it?  ’ 

The  stopping  of  the  carriages  now  announced  the  return  of  the 
party  and  terminated  a scene,  which,  if  much  longer  protracted, 
might,  by  increasing  their  agitation,  have  produced  a full  discov- 
ery of  their  feelings.  The  ladies  were  attended  by  Sir  Charles  and 
Freelove.  The  marquis  and  Lord  Cherbury  had  been  out,  but  re- 
turned about  this  time  ; and  soon  after  supper  the  company  de- 
parted— Lady  Araminta  tenderly  bidding  Amanda  farewell. 

The  cares  which  had  so  long  pressed  upon  the  heart  of  Amanda, 
and  disturbed  its  peace,  were  now  vanished.  The  whisper  of  Lord 
Mortimer  had  assured  her  that  she  was  not  only  the  object  of  his 
tenderest  affection,  but  most  serious  attention.  The  regard  of  Lady 
Araminta  fiattered  her  pride,  as  it  implied  a tacit  approbation  of 
her  brother’s  choice. 

The  next  morning,  immediately  after  breakfast.  Lady  Greystock 
went  out  to  her  lawyer,  and  Amanda  was  sitting  at  work  in  the 
dressing-room,  when  Sir  Charles  Bingley  was  announced.  He 
now  expressed,  if  possible,  more  pleasure  at  seeing  her  than  he 
had  done  the  preceding  night  ; congratulated  himself  at  finding 
her  alone,  and  repeatedly  declared,  from  their  first  interview,  hei 


200 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


image  had  never  been  absent  from  his  mind.  The  particularity 
and  ardor  of  his  expressions  Amanda  wished  and  endeavored  to 
to  repress.  She  had  not  the  ridiculous  and  unfeeling  vanity  to  be 
delighted  with  an  attachment  she  could  not  return  ; besides  his  at- 
tentions were  unpleasing,  as  she  believed  they  gave  uneasiness  to 
Lord  Mortimer.  She  therefore  answered  him  with  cold  and  studied 
caution,  which,  to  his  impetuous  feelings,  was  insupportable. 
Half  resenting,  half  rallying  it,  he  snatched  her  hand,  in  spite  of 
her  efforts  to  prevent  him,  and  was  declaring  he  could  not  bear 
it,  when  the  door  opened  and  Lord  Mortimer  appeared.  Had 
Amanda  been  encouraging  the  regard  of  Sir  Charles,  she  could 
not  have  betrayed  more  confusion.  Lord  Mortimer  retreated  a few 
steps,  in  evident  embarrassment ; then  bowing  coolly,  again  ad- 
vanced and  took  a seat.  Sir  Charles  started  up,  with  a look  which 
seemed  to  say  he  had  been  most  unpleasantly  interrupted,  and 
walked  about  the  room.  Amanda  was  the  first  who  broke  silence, 
She  asked,  in  a hesitating  voice,  ‘ Whether  Lady  Araminta  was 
yet  gone  ?’  ‘ No,’  his  lordship  gravely  replied  ; ‘but  in  a few 

minutes  she  proposed  setting  out,  and  he  meant  to  accompany  her 
part  of  the  way.’  ‘So,  till  her  ladyship  was  ready,’ cried  Sir 
Charles,  with  quickness,  ‘ that  no  time  might  be  lost,  you  come 
to  Miss  Fitzalan  ?’ 

Lord  Mortimer  made  no  reply.  He  frowned,  and  rising  di- 
rectly, slightly  saluted  Amanda,  and  retired. 

Convinced,  as  she  was,  that  Lord  Mortimer  had  made  the  visit 
for  the  purpose  of  speaking  moreexplicitly.than  he  had  yet  done, 
she  could  not  entirely  conceal  her  chagrin,  or  regard  Sir  Charles 
without  some  displeasure.  It  had  not,  however,  the  effect  of  mak- 
ing him  shorten  his  visit.  He  continued  with  her  till  Lady  Grey- 
stock’s  return,  to  whom  he  proposed  a party  that  evening  for  the 
opera,  and  obtained  permission  to  wait  upon  her  ladyship  at  tea, 
with  tickets,  notwithstanding  Amanda  declared  her  disinclination 
to  going.  She  wished  to  avoid  the  public,  as  well  as  private,  at- 
tentions of  Sir  Charles  ; but  both  she  found  impossible  to  do.  The 
impression  which  the  charms  of  her  mind  and  form  had  made  on 
him  was  of  too  ardent,  too  permanent  a nature,  to  be  erased  by 
her  coldness.  Generous  and  exalted  in  his  notions,  affluent  and 
independent  in  his  fortune,  he  neither  required  any  addition  of 
wealth,  nor  was  under  any  control  which  could  prevent  his  follow- 
ing his  inclinations.  His  heart  was  bent  on  a union  with  Amanda* 
Though  hurt  by  her  indifference,  he  would  not  allow  himself  to 
be  discouraged  by  it.  Time  and  perseverance,  he  trusted  and  be- 
lieved, would  conquer  it.  Unaccustomed  to  disappointment,  he 
could  not,  in  an  affair  which  so  materially  concerned  his  happi- 
ness, bear  the  idea  of  proving  unsuccessful.  Had  Amanda’s  heart 
been  disengaged,  he  would  probably  have  succeeded  as  he  wished; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


201 


for  he  was  calculated  to  please,  to  inspire  admiration  and  esteem  ; 
and  Amanda  felt  a real  friendship  for  him,  and  sincerely  grieved 
that  his  ardent  regard  could  not  be  reduced  to  as  temperate  a n^e- 
dium  as  hers. 

Lady  Greystock  had  a numerous  and  brilliant  acquaintance  in 
London,  among  whom  she  was  continually  engaged.  Sir  Charles 
was  well  known  to  them,  and  therefore  almost  constantly  attended 
Amanda  wherever  she  went.  His  unremitted  and  particular  at- 
tention excited  universal  observation  ; and  he  was  publicly  de- 
clared the  professed  admirer  of  Lady  Greystock’s  beautiful  com- 
panion. The  appellation  was  generally  bestowed  on  her  by  the 
gentlemen  ; as  many  of  Lady  Greystock’s  female  intimates  de- 
clared, from  the  appearance  of  the  girl,  as  well  as  her  distressed 
situation,  they  wondered  Sir  Charles  Bingley  could  ever  think 
about  her,  for  her  ladyship  had  represented  her  as  a person  in  the 
most  indigent  circumstances,  on  which  account  she  had  taken  her 
under  her  protection.  All  that  envy,  hatred,  and  malice  could 
suggest  against  her.  Miss  Malcolm  said.  The  marchioness  and 
Lady  Euphrasia,  judging  of  her  by  themselves,  supposed  that  as 
she  was  not  sure  of  Lord  Mortimer  she  would  accept  of  Sir 
Charles  ; and  though  this  measure  would  remove  all  apprehensions 
relative  to  Lord  Mortimer,  yet  the  idea  of  the  wealth  and  con- 
sequence she  would  derive  from  it,  almost  distracted  them.  Thus 
does  envy  sting  the  bosoms  which  harbor  it. 

Lord  Mortimer  again  resumed  his  reserve.  He  was  frequently 
in  company  with  Amanda,  but  never  even  attempted  to  pay  her 
any  attention  ; yet  his  eyes,  which  she  often  caught  riveted  on 
her,  though  the  moment  she  perceived  them  they  were  withdrawn, 
seemed  to  say  that  the  alteration  in  his  manner  was  not  produced 
by  any  diminution  of  tenderness.  He  was,  indeed,  determined  to 
regulate  his  conduct  by  hers  to  Sir  Charles.  Though  pained  and 
irritated  by  his  assiduities,  he  had  too  much  pride  to  declare  a 
prior  claim  to  her  regard — a woman  who  could  waver  between 
two  objects,  he  deemed  unworthy  of  either.  He  therefore  resolved 
to  leave  Amanda  free  to  act,  and  put  her  constancy  to  a kind  of 
test.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all  his  pride,  we  believe,  if  not  pretty 
well  convinced  that  this  test  would  have  proved  a source  of  tri- 
umph to  himself,  he  never  would  have  submitted  to  it.  The  period 
for  Lady  Araminta’s  return  was  now  arrived,  and  Amanda  was 
anxiously  expecting  her,  when  she  heard  from  Lady  Euphrasia 
that  her  ladyship  had  been  ill  in  the  country,  and  would  not  there- 
fore leave  it  for  some  time.  This  was  a severe  disappointment  to 
Amanda,  who  had  hoped,  by  her  ladyship’s  means,  to  have  seem 
less  of  Sir  Charles  and  more  of  Lord  Mortimer. 


202 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

And  why  should  such,  within  herself,  she  cried, 

Lock  the  lost  wealth,  a thousand  want  beside.— Parnell. 

Amanda  was  sitting  alone  in  the  drawing-room  one  morning, 
when  a gentleman  was  shown  into  it,  to  wait  for  Lady  Greystock. 
The  stranger  was  about  the  middle  period  of  life  ; his  dress  an- 
nounced him  a military  man,  and  his  threadbare  coat  seemed  to 
declare  that  whatever  laurels  he  had  gathered,  they  were  barren 
ones.  His  form  and  face  were  interesting  ; infirmity  appeared  to 
press  upon  one,  and  sorrow  had  deeply  marked  the  other,  yet 
without  despoiling  it  of  a certain  expression  which  indicated  the 
hilarity  nature  had  once  stamped  upon  it.  His  temples  were 
sunk,  and  his  cheek  faded  to  a sickly  hue.  Amanda  felt  immedi- 
ate respect  and  sensibility  for  the  interesting  figure  before  her. 
The  feelings  of  her  soul,  the  early  lessons  of  her  youth,  had  taught 
her  to  reverence  distress  ; and  never,  perhaps,  did  she  think  it  so 
peculiarly  affecting  as  when  in  a military  garb. 

The  day  was  uncommonly  severe,  and  the  stranger  shivered 
with  the  cold. 

‘I  declare,  young  lady,’  cried  he,  as  he  took  the  chair  which 
Amanda  had  placed  for  him  by  the  fire,  ‘ I think  I should  not 
tremble  more  before  an  enemy  than  I do  before  this  day.  I don’t 
know  but  what  it  is  as  essential  for  a subaltern  officer  to  stand 
cold  as  well  as  fire.  ’ 

Amanda  smiled,  and  resumed  her  work.  She  was  busily  em- 
ployed making  a trimming  of  artificial  flowers  for  Lady  Grey- 
stock  to  present  to  a young  lady  from  whose  family  she  had 
received  some  obligations.  This  was  a cheap  mode  of  returning 
them,  as  Amanda’s  materials  were  used. 

‘ Your  employment  is  an  entertaining  one,’ said  the  stranger 
‘and  your  roses  literally  without  thorns  ; such,  no  doubt,  as  you 
expect  to  gather  in  your  path  through  life.  ’ 

‘No,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘1  have  no  such  expectation.’ 

‘And  yet,’  said  he,  ‘how  few  at  your  time  of  life,  particularly 
if  possessed  of  your  advantages,  could  make  such  a declaration.’ 

‘Whoever  had  reflection  undoubtedly  would,’  replied  Amanda. 

‘ That  I allow,’  cried  he;  ‘ but  how  few  do  we  find  with  reflec- 
tion?— from  the  young  it  is  banished,  as  the  rigid  tyrant  that 
would  forbid  the  enjoyment  of  the  pleasures  they  pant  after — and 
from  the  old  it  is  too  often  expelled,  as  an  enemy  to  that  forgetful- 
ness which  can  alone  insure  their  tranquillity.’ 

‘ But  in  both,  I trust,’  said  Amanda,  ‘ you  will  allow  there  are 
exceptions.’ 

j ‘ Perhaps  there  are;  yet  often,  when  conscience  has  no  reasoa 


THE  CHILDREX  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


203 


to  dread,  sensibility  has  cause  to  fear  reflection,  which  not  only 
revives  the  recollection  of  happy  hours,  but  inspires  such  a regret 
for  their  loss  as  almost  unfits  the  soul  for  any  exertions ; ’tis  indeed 
beautifully  described  in  these  lines : 

* still  importunate  and  vain, 

To  former  joys  recurring  ever 
And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain.’ 

Amanda  attentively  watched  him,  and  thought  what  he  said  ap. 
peared  paticularly  applicable  to  himself,  as  his  countenance  as- 
sumed a more  dejected  expression.  He  revived,  however,  in  a few 
moments. 

‘ I have,  my  dear  young  lady,’  continued  he,  smiling,  ‘ beguiled 
you  most  soberly,  as  Lady  Grace  says,  into  conversation.  I have, 
however,  given  you  an  opportunity  of  amusing  your  fancy  by 
drawing  a comparison  between  an  old  veteran  and  a young  soldier ; 
but  though  you  may  allow  him  more  animation,  I trust  you  will 
not  do  me  so  much  injustice  as  to  allow  him  more  taste:  while  he 
merely  extolled  the  luster  of  your  eyes,  I should  admire  the  mild- 
ness which  tempered  that  luster;  while  he  praised  the  glow  of 
your  cheek,  I should  adore  that  sensibility  which  had  power,  in  a 
moment,  to  augment  or  diminish  it.’ 

At  this  instant  Lady  Greystock  entered  the  room — she  entered 
it  with  the  swell  of  importance,  and  a haughty  e:J^pression  of  con- 
tempt in  her  features. 

The  stranger  rose  from  his  chair,  and  his  paleness  increased. 

‘ So,  Mr.  Kushbrook,’  at  last  drawled  out  her  ladyship.  ‘ So, 
sir:  but  pray  be  seated,’  waving  her  hand  at  the  same  time. 

Amanda  now  retired : she  had  lingered  a few  moments  in  the 
room,  under  the  pretense  of  putting  her  work  out  of  her  ladyship’s 
way,  to  discover  who  the  stranger  was. 

Rushbrook  had  been  represented  to  her  as  artful,  treacherous, 
and  contemptible.  His  appearance  was  almost  a sufficient  refu- 
tation of  those  charges,  and  she  began  to  think  they  never  would 
have  been  laid  against  him  by  any  other  being  than  Lady  Grey- 
stock,  from  a desire  of  depreciating  her  adversary.  In  her  lady- 
ship she  had  seen  much  to  dislike  since  she  resided  with  her ; she 
saw  that  the  temper,  like  the  person,  is  often  allowed  to  be  in  dfs- 
habille  at  home. 

She  felt  even  warmly  interested  about  Rushbrook;  she  had 
heard  of  his  large  family;  and,  from  his  appearance,  she  con- 
jectured they  must.be  in  distress.  There  was  a kind  of  humorous 
sadness  in  his  manner  which  affected  her  even  more  than  a settled 
melancholy  perhaps  would  have  done,  as  it  implied  the  efforts  of 
a noble  heart  to  repel  sorrow ; and  if  there  cannot  be  a more  noble, 
neither,  surely,  can  there  be  a more  affecting  sight,  than  that  ol 
a good  and  brave  man  struggling  with  adversity. 


204 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


As  she  leaned  pensively  against  the  window,  reflecting  on  the 
various  inequalities  of  fortune,  yet  still  believing  they  were  de- 
signed by  a wise  Providence,  like  hill  and  valley,  mutually  to 
benefit  each  other,  she  saw  Rush  brook  cross  the  street ; his  walk 
was  the  slow  and  lingering  walk  of  dejection  and  disappointment. 
He  raised  his  hand  to  his  eyes,  Amanda  supposed  to  wipe  away 
his  tears,  and  her  own  fell  at  the  supposition.  The  severity  of  the 
day  had  increased ; a heavy  shower  of  snow  was  falling,  against 
which  poor  Rushbrook  had  no  shelter  but  his  threadbare  coat. 
Amanda  was  unutterably  affected ; and  when  he  disappeared  from 
her  sight,  she  fell  into  a sentimental  soliloquy,  something  in  the 
style  of  Yorick. 

‘ Was  I mistress,’  exclaimed  she,  as  she  beheld  the  splendid  car- 
riages passing  and  repassing, — ‘ was  I mistress  of  one  of  those  car- 
riages, an  old  soldier  like  Rushbrook  should  not  be  exposed  to  the 
inclemency  of  a wintry  sky ; neither  should  his  coat  be  thread- 
bare, nor  his  heart  oppressed  with  anguish ! If  I saw  a tear  upon 
his  cheek  I would  say  it  had  no  business  there,  for  comfort  was 
about  revisiting  him.’  As  she  spoke,  the  idea  of  Lord  Mortimer 
occurred.  Her  tears  were  suspended,  and  her  cheek  began  to  glow. 

‘ Yes,  poor  Rushbrook ! ’ she  exclaimed,  ‘ perhaps  the  period  is 
not  far  distant  wjien  a bounteous  Providence,  through  the  hands 
of  Amanda,  may  relieve  thy  wants ; when  Mortimer  himself  may 
be  her  assistant  in  the  office  of  benevolence  ! ’ 

Lady  Grey  stock’s  woman  now  appeared,  to  desire  she  would 
come  down  to  her  lady.  She  immediately  obeyed  the  summons, 
with  a secret  hope  of  hearing  something  of  the  conference.  Her 
ladyship  received  her  with  an  exulting  laugh. 

‘ I have  good  news  to  tell  you,  my  dear,’  exclaimed  she;  ‘ that 
poor  wretch  Rushbrook  has  lost  the  friend  who  was  to  have  sup- 
ported him  in  the  lawsuit;  and  the  lawyers,  finding  the  sheet- 
anchor  gone,  have  steered  off,  and  left  him  to  shift  for  himself. 
The  miserable  creature  and  his  family  must  certainly  starve. 
Only  think  of  his  assurance ! He  came  to  say,  indeed,  he  would 
now  be  satisfied  with  a compromise.’  ^ Well,  madam?’  said 
Amanda. 

‘Well,  madam,’  repeated  her  ladyship,  mimicking  her  manner  ; 
‘ 1 told  him  I must  be  a fool  indeed,  if  ever  I consented  to  such  a 
thing,  after  his  effrontery  in  attempting  to  litigate  the  will  of  his 
much-abused  uncle,  my  dear,  good  Sir  Geoffry.  No,  no  ; I bid 
him  proceed  in  the  suit,  as  all  my  lawyers  were  prepared  ; and, 
after  so  much  trouble  on  both  sides,  it  would  be  a pity  the  thing 
came  to  nothing.’  ‘As  your  ladyship,  however,  knows  his  ex- 
treme distress,  no  doubt  you  will  relieve  it.’  ‘ Why,  pray,’  said 
her  ladyship  smartly,  ‘ do  you  think  he  has  any  claim  upon 
me  ? ’ ‘ Yes,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘ if  not  upon  your  justice,  at  least 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


205 


upon  your  humanity.’  ‘ So  you  would  advise  me  to  flin^  away 
my  money  upon  him?’  ‘Yes,’  replied  Amanda,  smiling,  ‘I 
would.  And,  as  your  ladyship  likes  the  expression,  have  you 
fling  it  away  profusely.’  ‘Well,  well,’  answered  she,  ‘when 
you  arrive  at  my  age,  you  will  know  the  real  value  of  wealth.’ 
*I  trust,  madam,’  said  Amanda  with  spirit,  ‘I  know  its  real  value 
already.  We  only  estimate  it  differently.’ 

‘ And  pray,’  asked  her  ladyship,  with  a sneer,  ‘ how  may  you 
estimate  it  ? ’ 

‘As  the  means,  madam,  of  dispensing  happiness  around  us. 
Of  giving  shelter  to  the  houseless  child  of  want,  and  joy  to  the 
afflicted  heart  ; as  a sacred  deposit  intrusted  to  us  by  an  Almighty 
Power  for  those  purposes,  which,  if  so  applied,  will  nourish  placid 
and  delightful  reflections,  that,  like  soothing  friends,  will  crowd 
around  us  in  the  bed  of  sickness  or  death,  alleviating  the  pains  of 
one,  and  the  terrors  of  the  other.’ 

‘Upon  my  word,’  exclaimed  Lady  Greystock,  ‘a  fine,  flowery 
speech,  and  well  calculated  for  a sentimental  novel  or  a moral 
treatise  for  the  improvement  of  youth.  But  I advise  you,  my 
dear,  in  future,  to  keep  your  queer  and  romantic  notions  to  your- 
self, or  else  it  will  be  suspected  you  have  made  romances  your 
study  ; for  you  have  just  spoken  as  one  of  their  heroines  would 
have  done.’ 

Amanda  made  no  reply  ; yet,  as  she  beheld  her  ladyship  seated 
in  an  easy -chair,  by  a blazing  fire,  with  a large  bowl  of  rich  soup 
before  her,  which  she  took  every  morning,  she  could  not  forbear 
secretly  exclaiming  : ‘ Hard-hearted  woman  ! engrossed  by  your 

own  gratifications,  no  ray  of  compassion  can  soften  your  nature 
for  the  misfortunes  of  others.  Sheltered  yourself  from  the  tem- 
pest, you  see  it  falling,  without  pity,  on  the  head  of  wretchedness  ; 
and  while  you  feast  on  luxuries,  think  without  emotion  of  those 
who  want  even  common  necessaries.’ 

In  the  evening  they  went  to  a large  party  at  the  marchioness’s, 
but  though  the  scene  was  gay  and  brilliant,  it  could  not  remove 
the  pensiveness  of  Amanda’s  spirits.  The  emaciated  form  of 
Rushbrook,  returning  to  his  desolate  family,  dwelt  upon  her  mind. 
‘A  little,’  she  thought,  as  she  surveyed  the  magnificence  of  the 
apartments,  and  the  splendor  of  the  company  which  crowded 
them,  ‘ a little  from  this  parade  of  vanity  and  wealth,  would  give 
relief  to  many  a child  of  indigence.’  Never  had  the  truth  of  the 
following  lines  so  forcibly  struck  her  imagination : 

Ah,  little  think  the  gay,  licentious  crowd 
Whom  pleasure,  power,  and  affluence  surround  ; 

They  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth 
And,  wanton,  often  cruel,  riot  waste  ; 

Ah,  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along. 

How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  deaths 


206 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


And  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain. 

How  many  drink  the  cup 
Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 
Of  misery,  sore  pierced  by  wintry  winds  ! 

How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty  I 

From  such  reflections  as  these  she  was  disturbed  by  the  entrance 
of  Sir  Charles  Bingley.  As  usual,  he  took  his  station  by  her,  and 
in  a few  minutes  after  him  Lord  Mortimer  appeared.  A party  for 
vingt-un  was  formed,  in  which  Amanda  joined,  from  a wish  of 
avoiding  the  assiduities  of  Sir  Charles  ; but  he  took  care  to  secure 
a seat  next  hers,  and  Lord  Mortimer  sat  opposite  to  them. 

‘Bingley,’  said  a gentleman,  after  they  had  been  some  time  at 
the  table,  ‘ you  are  certainly  the  most  changeable  fellow  in  the 
world.  About  three  weeks  ago  you  were  hurrying  everything 
for  a journey  to  Ireland,  as  if  life  and  death  depended  on  your 
expedition,  and  here  I still  find  you  loitering  about  the  town.’ 

‘ I deny  the  imputation  of  changeableness,’  replied  the  baronet ; 
‘all  my  actions  are  regulated,’  and  he  glanced  at  Amanda,  ‘by 
one  source,  one  object.’ 

Amanda  blushed,  and  caught,  at  that  moment,  a penetrating 
look  from  Lord  Mortimer.  Her  situation  was  extremely  dis- 
agreeable. She  dreaded  his  attentions  would  be  imputed  to  en- 
couragement from  her  ; she  had  often  tried  to  suppress  them, 
and  she  resolved  her  next  efforts  should  be  more  resolute. 

Sir  Charles  reached  Pall  Mall  the  next  morning  just  as  Lady 
Greystock  was  stepping  into  her  chariot,  to  acquaint  her  lawyer 
of  Rush  brook’s  visit.  She  informed  him  that  Miss  Pitzalan  was  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  he  fiew  up  to  her. 

‘You  find,’  said  he,  ‘by  what  you  heard  last  night,  that  my 
conduct  has  excited  some  surprise.  I assure  you  my  friends 
think  I must  absolutely  be  deranged,  to  relinquish  so  suddenly  a 
journey  I appeared  so  anxious  to  take.  Suffer  me,’  continued 
he,  taking  her  hand,  ‘ to  assign  the  true  reason  for  this  apparent 
change.’  ‘Sir  Charles,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘ ’tis  time  to  termi-^ 
nate  this  trifling.’ 

‘Oh,  let  it  then  be  terminated,’  said  he,  with  eagerness,  ‘ by 
your  consenting  to  my  happiness,  by  your  accepting  a hand, 
tendered  to  you  with  the  most  ardent  affections  of  my  heart. ^ 

With  equal  delicacy  and  tenderness,  he  then  urged  her  ac- 
ceptance of  proposals  which  were  as  disinterested  as  the  most 
romantic  generosity  could  desire  them  to  be. 

Amanda  felt  really  concerned  that  he  had  made  them  ; the 
grateful  sensibility  of  her  nature  was  hurt  at  the  idea  of  giving 
him  pain.  ‘Believe  me.  Sir  Charles,’  said  she,  ‘I  am  truly  sen- 
sible of  the  honor  of  your  addesses  ; but  I should  deem  myself  un- 
worthy of  the  favorable  opinion  which  excited  them,  if  I delayed 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY.  2^f 

a moment  assuring  you  that  friendship  was  the  only  return  m 
my  power  to  make  for  them.’ 

The  impetuous  passions  of  Sir  Charles  were  now  all  in  commo- 
tion. He  started  from  his  chair  and  traversed  the  apartment  in 
breathless  agitation.  ‘I  will  not,  Miss  Fitzalan,’  said  he,  re- 
suming his  seat  again,  ‘ believe  you  inflexible.  I will  not  believe 
that  you  can  think  I shall  so  easily  resign  an  idea  which  I have 
so  long  cherished  with  rapture.’ 

‘Surely,  Sir  Charles,’ somewhat  alarmed,  ‘you  cannot  accuse 
me  of  having  encouraged  that  idea?  ’ 

‘Oh,  no,’  sighed  he  passionately,  ‘to  me  you  were  always 
uniformly  cold.’  ‘ And  from  whence,  then,  proceeded  such  an 
idea?  ’ 

‘ From  the  natural  propensity  we  all  have  to  deceive  ourselves 
and  to  believe  that  whatever  we  wish  will  be  accomplished.  Ah  I 
Miss  Fitzalan,  deprive  me  not  of  so  sweet  a belief.  I will  not  at 
present  urge  you  to  any  material  step  to  which  you  are  averse; 
I will  only  entreat  for  permission  to  hope  that  time,  perseverance, 
unremitted  attention,  may  make  some  impression  on  you,  and  at 
last  produce  a change  in  my  favor.  ’ 

‘ Never,  Sir  Charles,  will  I give  rise  to  a hope  which  I think 
cannot  be  realized.  A little  reflection  will  convince  you,  you 
should  not  be  displeased  at  my  being  so  explicit.  We  are,  at  this 
moment,  both  perhaps,  too  much  discomposed  to  render  a longer 
conference  desirable.  Pardon  me,  therefore,  if  I now  terminate 
it,  and  be  assured,  I shall  never  lose  a grateful  remembrance  of 
the  honor  you  intended  me,  or  forget  the  friendship  I professed 
for  Sir  Charles  Bingley.  ’ 

She  then  withdrew,  without  any  obstruction  from  him.  Ee- 
gret  and  disappointment  seemed  to  have  suspended  his  faculties; 
but  it  was  a momentary  suspension,  and  on  recovering  them  he 
quitted  the  house. 

His  pride,  at  flrst,  urged  him  to  give  up  Amanda  forever ; but 
nis  tenderness  soon  opposed  this  resolution.  He  had,  as  he  him- 
self acknowledged,  a propensity  to  believe,  that  whatever  he 
wished  was  easy  to  accomplish ; this  propensity  proceeded  from 
the  easiness  with  which  his  inclinations  had  hitherto  been  grati- 
fied. Flattering  himself  that  the  coldness  of  Amanda  proceeded 
more  from  natural  reserve  than  particular  indifference  to  him, 
he  still  hoped  she  might  be  induced  to  favor  him.  She  was  so  su- 
perior, in  his  opinion,  to  every  woman  he  had  seen,  so  truly  calcu- 
lated  to  render  him  happy,  that,  as  the  violence  of  offended  pride 
abated,  he  resolved,  without  another  effort,  not  to  give  her  up. 
Without  knowing  it,  he  had  rambled  to  St.  James’s  Square,  and 
having  heard  of  the  friendship  subsisting  between  Lord  Cherbury 
and  Fitzalan,  he  deemed  his  lordship  a proper  person  to  apply 


208 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


on  the  present  occasion,  thinking,  that  if  he  interested  himself 
in  his  favor,  he  might  yet  be  successful.  He  accordingly  repaired 
to  his  house,  and  \^as  shown  into  an  apartment  where  the  earl 
and  Lord  Mortimer  were  sitting  together.  After  paying  the 
usual  compliments,  ‘I  am  come,  my  lord,’  said  he,  somewhat 
abruptly,  ‘ to  entreat  your  interest  in  an  affair  which  materially 
concerns  my  happiness,  and  trust  your  lordship  will  excuse  my 
entreaty,  when  I inform  you  it  relates  to  Miss  Fitzalan.’ 

The  earl,  with  much  politeness,  assured  him  ‘ He  should  feel 
happy  in  an  opportunity  of  serving  him,’  and  said  ‘ he  did 
him  but  justice  in  supposing  him  particularly  interested  about 
Miss  Fitzalan,  not  only  as  the  daughter  of  his  old  friend,  but  from 
her  own  great  merit.’ 

Sir  Charles  then  acquainted  him  with  the  proposals  he  had  just 
made  her,  and  her  absolute  rejection  of  them ; and  expressed  his 
hope  that  Lord  Cherbury  would  try  to  influence  her  in  his  favor. 

‘’Tis  very  extraordinary,  indeed,’  cried  his  lordship,  ‘that 
Miss  Fitzalan  should  decline  such  an  honorable,  such  an  advan- 
tageous proposal.  Are  you  sure.  Sir  Charles,  there  is  no  prior 
attachment  in  the  case  ? ' 

‘ I never  heard  of  one,  my  lord,  and  I believe  none  exists.’ 
Lord  Mortimer’s  countenance  lowered  at  this,  but,  happily,  its 
gloom  was  unperceived. 

‘I  will  write  to-day,’  said  the  earl,  ‘to  Mr.  Fitzalan,  and  men- 
tion your  proposal  to  him  in  the  terms  it  deserves.  Except 
authorized  by  him,  you  must.  Sir  Charles,  excuse  my  personal 
interference  in  the  affair.  I have  no  doubt,  indeed,  but  he  will 
approve  of  your  addresses,  and  you  may  then  depend  on  my  sec- 
onding them  with  all  my  interest.’ 

This  promise  satisfled  Sir  Charles,  and  he  soon  after  withdrew. 
Lord  Mortimer  was  now  pretty  well  convinced  of  the  state  of 
Amanda’s  heart.  Under  this  conviction,  he  delayed  not  many 
minutes,  after  Sir  Charles’s  departure,  going  to  Pall  Mall  ; and 
having  particularly  inquired  whether  Lady  Greystock  was  out, 
and  being  answered  in. the  affirmative,  he  ascended  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, to  which  Amanda,  had  again  returned. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Ck)  bid  the  needle  its  dear  north  forsake, 

To  which  with  trembling  reverence  it  does  bend  ; 

Go  bid  the  stones  a journey  upward  make  ; 

Go  bid  the  ambitious  flame  no  more  ascend ; 

And  when  these  false  to  their  old  motions  prove, 

Then  will  I cease  thee,  thee  alone,  to  love.— Cowxet. 

In  an  emotion  of  surprise  at  so  unexpected  a visit,  the  book  she 
was  reading  dropped  from  Amanda’s  hand,  and  she  arose  in  vid 
ble  agitation. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


2oa 


‘ I fear,’  said  his  lordship,  ‘ I have  intruded  somewhat  abruptly 
upon  you  ; but  my  apology  for  doing  so  must  be  my  ardent  wish 
of  using  an  opportunity  so  propitious  for  a mutual  eclaircisse- 
ment — an  opportunity  I might,  perhaps,  vainly  seek  again.’ 

He  took  her  trembling  hand,  led  her  to  the  sofa,  and  placed 
himself  beside  her.  As  a means  of  leading  to  the  desired  eclair- 
cissement,  he  related  the  agonies  he  had  suffered  at  returning  to 
Tudor  Hall,  and  finding  her  gone — gone  in  a manner  so  inexplic- 
able, that  the  more  he  refiected  on  it  the  more  wretched  he  grew. 
He  described  the  hopes  and  fears  which  alternatety  fiuctuated  in 
his  mind  during  his  continuance  in  Ireland,  and  which  often 
drove  him  into  a state  nearly  bordering  on  distraction.  He  men- 
tioned the  resolution,  though  painful  in  the  extreme,  which  he 
had  adopted  on  the  first  appearance  of  Sir  Charles  Bingley  s par- 
ticularity ; and  finally  concluded  by  assuring  her,  notwithstand- 
ing all  his  incertitude  and  anxiety,  his  tenderness  had  never 
known  diminution. 

Encouraged  by  this  assurance,  Amanda,  with  restored  com- 
posure, informed  him  of  the  reason  of  her  precipitate  journey 
from  Wales,  and  the  incidents  which  prevented  her  meeting  him 
in  Ireland,  as  he  had  expected.  Though  delicacy  forbade  her 
dwelling,  like  Lord  Mortimer,  on  the  wretchedness  occasioned  by 
their  separation,  and  mutual  misapprehensions  of  each  other,  she 
could  not  avoid  touching  upon  it  sufficiently,  indeed,  to  convince 
him  she  had  been  a sympathizing  participator  in  all  the  uneasi- 
ness he  had  suffered. 

Restored  to  the  confidence  of  Mortimer,  Amanda  appeared 
dearer  to  his  soul  than  ever.  Pleasure  beamed  from  his  eyes,  as 
he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  exclaimed,  ‘ I may  again  call 
you  my  own  Amanda  ; again  sketch  scenes  of  felicity,  and  call 
upon  you  to  realize  them.’  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  this  transport,  a 
sudden  gloom  clouded  his  countenance  ; and  after  gazing  on  her 
some  minutes,  with  pensive  tenderness,  he  fervently  exclaimed  : 
‘Would  to  Heaven,  in  this  hour  of  perfect  reconciliation,  I 
oould  say  that  all  obstacles  to  our  future  happiness  were  removed.’ 
Amanda  involuntarily  shuddered,  and  continued  silent. 

‘ That  my  father  will  throw  difficulties  in  the  way  of  our  union, 
I cannot  deny  my  apprehension  of,’  said  Lord  Mortimer  ; 
‘ though  truly  noble  and  generous  in  his  nature,  he  is  some- 
times, like  the  rest  of  mankind,  infiuenced  by  interested  motives. 
He  has  long,  from  such  motives,  set  his  heart  on  a connection 
with  the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s  family.  Though  fully  determined 
in  my  intentions,  I have  hitherto  forborne  an  explicit  declaration 
of  them  to  him,  trusting  that  some  propitious  chance  would  yet 
second  my  wishes,  and  save  me  the  painful  necessity  of  disturb 
ing  the  harmony  which  has  ever  subsisted  between  us.  ’ 


210 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


‘ Oh  ! my  lord  ! ’ said  Amanda,  turning  pale  and  shrinking 
from  him,  ‘ let  me  not  be  the  unfortunate  cause  of  disturbing 
that  harmony.  Comply  with  the  wishes  of  Lord  Cherbury, 
marry  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  let  me  be  forgotten.’ 

‘ Amanda,’  cried  his  lordship,  ‘accuse  not  yourself  of  being  the 
cause  of  any  disagreement  between  us.  Had  I never  seen  you, 
with  respect  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  I should  have  felt  the  same 
inability  to  comply  with  his  wishes.  To  me  her  person  is  not 
more  unpleasing  than  her  mind.  I have  long  been  convinced 
that  wealth  alone  was  insufficient  to  bestow  felicity,  and  have 
ever  considered  the  man  who  could  sacrifice  his  feelings  at  the 
shrine  of  interest  or  ambition,  degraded  below  the  standard  of 
humanity  ; that  to  marry,  merely  from  selfish  considerations, 
was  one  of  the  most  culpable,  most  contemptible  actions  which 
could  be  committed.  To  enter  into  such  a union,  I want  the 
propensities  which  can  alone  ever  occasion  it,  namely,  a violent 
passion  for  the  enjoyments  only  attainable  through  the  medium 
of  wealth.  Left  at  an  early  age  uncontrolled  master  of  my  own 
actions,  I drank  freely  of  the  cup  of  pleasure,  but  found  it  soon 
pall  upon  my  taste.  It  was,  indeed,  unmixed  with  any  of  those 
refined  ingredients  which  can  only  please  the  intellectual  appetite, 
and  might  properly  be  termed  the  cup  of  false  instead  of  real 
pleasure.  Thinking,  therefore,  as  I do,  that  a union  without  love 
is  abhorrent  to  probity  and  sensibility,  and  that  the  dissipated 
pleasures  of  life  are  not  only  prejudicial  but  tiresome,  I naturally 
wish  to  secure  to  myself  domestic  happiness  ; but  never  could  it 
be  experienced  except  united  to  a woman  whom  my  reason 
thoroughly  approved,  who  should  at  once  possess  my  unbounded 
confidence  and  tenderest  affection ; who  should  be,  not  only  the 
promotor  of  my  joys,  but  the  assuager  of  my  cares.  In  you  I have 
found  such  a woman ; such  a being,  as  I candidly  confess,  some 
time  ago,  I thought  it  impossible  to  meet  wfith.  To  you  I am 
bound  by  a sentiment  even  stronger  than  love — by  honor — and 
with  real  gratitude  acknowledge  my  obligations  in  being  permit- 
ted to  atone,  in  some  degree,  for  my  errors  relative  to  you.  But 
I will  not  allow  my  Amanda  to  suppose  these  errors  proceeded 
from  any  settled  depravity  of  soul.  Allowed  to  be,  as  I have 
before  said,  my  own  master  at  an  early  period,  from  the  natural 
thoughtlessness  of  youth  I was  led  into  scenes  which  the  judg- 
ment of  riper  years  has  since  severely  condemned.  Here,  too, 
often  I met  with  women  whose  manners,  instead  of  checking, 
gave  a latitude  to  freedom ; women,  too,  who,  from  their  situa- 
tions in  life,  had  every  advantage  that  could  be  requisite  for 
improving  and  refining  their  minds.  From  conversing  with 
them  I gradually  imbibed  a prejudice  against  the  whole  sex,  and 
under  that  prejudice  first  beheld  you,  and  feared  either  to  doubt 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  211 

or  to  believe  the  reality  of  the  innocence  you  appeared  to 
possess. 

‘ Convinced  at  length,  most  fully,  most  happily  convinced  of  its 
reality,  my  prejudices  no  longer  remained;  they  vanished  like 
mists  before  the  sun — or  rather  like  the  illusions  of  falsehood  be- 
fore the  influence  of  truth . W ere  those,  my  dear  Amanda,  of  your 
sex,  who,  like  you,  had  the  resistless  power  of  pleasing,  to  use  the 
faculties  assigned  them  by  a bounteous  Providence  in  the  cause 
of  virtue,  they  would  soon  check  the  dissipation  of  the  times. 

‘ ’Tis  impossible  to  express  the  power  a beautiful  form  has  over 
the  human  mind ; that  power  might  be  exerted  for  nobler  pur- 
poses. Purity  speaking  from  love-inspiring  lips  would,  like  the 
voice  of  Adam’s  heavenly  guest,  so  sweetly  breathe  upon  the 
ear  as  insensibly  to  influence  the  heart ; the  libertine  it  corrected 
would,  if  not  utterly  hardened,  reform  ; no  longer  would  he  glory 
in  his  vices,  but  touched  and  abashed,  instead  of  destroying, 
worship  female  virtue. 

‘ But  I wander  from  the  purpose  of  my  soul.  Convinced  as  I 
am  of  the  dissimilarity  between  my  father’s  inclinations  and  mine, 
I think  it  better  to  give  no  intimation  of  my  present  intentions, 
which,  if  permitted  by  you,  I am  unalterably  determined  on 
fulfilling,  as  I should  consider  it  as  highly  insulting  to  him  to 
incur  his  prohibition,  and  then  act  in  defiance  of  it,  though  my 
heart  would  glory  in  avowing  its  choice.  The  peculiar  circum- 
stances I have  just  mentioned  will,  T trust,  induce  my  Amanda 
to  excuse  a temporary  concealment  of  it,  till  beyond  the  power 
of  mortals  to  separate  us — a private  and  immediate  union,  the 
exigency  of  the  situation,  and  the  security  felicity  demands.  I 
shall  feel  a trembling  apprehension  till  I call  you  mine;  life  is  too 
short  to  permit  the  waste  of  time  in  idle  scruples  and  unmeaning 
ceremonies.  The  eye  of  suspicion  has  long  rested  upon  us,  and 
would,  I am  convinced,  effect  a premature  discovery,  if  we  took 
not  some  measure  to  prevent  it. 

‘Deem  me  not  too  precipitate,  my  Amanda,’  passing  his  arm 
gently  round  her  waist,  ‘ if  I ask  you  to-morrow  night,  for  the 
last  sweet  proof  of  confidence  you  can  give  me,  by  putting  your- 
self under  my  protection.  A journey  to  Scotland  is  unavoidable 
— in  the  arrangements  I shall  make  for  it,  all  that  is  due  to  deli- 
cacy I shall  consider.’ 

‘Mention  it  no  more,  my  lord,’ said  Amanda,  in  a faltering 
accent ; ‘ no  longer  delude  your  imagination  or  mine  with  the  hopes 
of  being  united.’ 

Hitherto  she  had  believed  the  approbation  of  Lord  Cherbury 
to  the  wishes  of  his  son  would  be  obtained,  the  moment  he  was 
convinced  how  essential  their  gratification  was  to  his  fehcity.  She 
judged  of  him  by  her  father^  who,  she  was  convinced,  if  situations 


THE  CHILDEEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


gl2 

were  reversed,  would  bestow  her  on  Mortimer  without  hesitation 
These  ideas  so  nourished  her  attachment,  that,  like  the  vital  parts 
of  existence,  it  at  length  became  painfully,  almost  fatally,  suscep- 
tible of  every  shock.  Her  dream  of  happiness  was  over  the 
moment  she  heard  Lord  Cherbury’s  consent  was  not  to  be  asked, 
from  a fear  of  its  being  refused.  ’Twas  misery  to  be  separated 
from  Lord  Mortimer,  but  it  was  guilt  and  misery  to  marry  him 
clandestinely,  after  the  solemn  injunction  her  father  had  given  her 
against  such  a step.  The  shock  of  disappointment  could  not  be 
borne  with  composure ; it  pressed  like  a cold  dead  weight  upon  her 
heart.  She  trembled,  and,  unable  to  support  herself,  sunk  against 
the  shoulder  of  Lord  Mortimer,  while  a shower  of  tears  proclaimed 
her  agony.  Alarmed  by  her  emotion  Lord  Mortimer  hastily  de- 
manded its  source,  and  the  reason  of  the  words  which  had  just 
escaped  her. 

‘ Because,  my  lord,  ’ replied  she,  ‘ I cannot  consent  to  a clan- 
destine measure,  nor  bear  you  should  incur  the  displeasure  of 
Lord  Cherbury  on  my  account.  Though  Lady  Euphrasia  Suther- 
land is  not  agreeable,  there  are  many  women  who,  with  equal 
rank  and  fortune,  possess  the  perfections  suited  to  your  taste. 
Seek  for  one  of  these — choose  from  among  them  a happy  daughter 
of  prosperity,  and  let  Amanda,  untitled,  unportioned,  and  unpleas- 
ing to  your  father,  return  to  an  obscurity  which  owes  its  comfort 
to  his  fostering  bounty.  ’ ‘ Does  this  advice,  ’ asked  Lord  Mortimer, 

‘ proceed  from  Amanda’s  heart?  ’ ‘ No,’  replied  she  hesitatingly, 

and  smiling  through  her  tears,  ‘ not  from  her  heart  but  from  a 
better  counselor,  her  reason.’ 

‘ And  shall  I not  obey  the  dictates  of  reason,’  replied  he,  ‘ in 
uniting  my  destiny  to  yours?  Reason  directs  us  to  seek  happiness 
through  virtuous  means;  and  what  means  are  so  adapted  for  that 
purpose,  as  a union  with  a beloved  and  amiable  woman?  No, 
Amanda ; no  titled  daughter  of  prosperity,  to  use  your  own  words, 
shall  ever  attract  my  affections  from  you.  “ Imagination  cannot 
form  a shape,  besides  your  own,  to  like  of ; ” a shape  which,  even 
if  despoiled  of  its  graces,  would  enshrine  a mind  so  transcendently 
lovely  as  to  secure  my  admiration.  In  choosing  you  as  the  partner 
of  my  future  days,  I do  not  infringe  the  moral  obligation  which 
exists  between  father  and  son ; for  as,  on  one  hand,  it  does  not  re 
quire  weak  indulgence ; so,  on  the  other,  it  does  not  demand  the 
implicit  obedience,  if  reason  and  happiness  must  be  sacrificed  by  it. 
Nothing  would  have  tempted  me  to  propose  a private  union  but 
the  hope  of  escaping  many  disagreeable  circumstances  by  it.  If 
you  persist,  however,  in  rejecting  it,  I shall  openly  avow  my  in- 
tentions, for  a long  continuance  of  anxiety  and  suspense  I cannot 
support.’ 

‘ Do  you  think,  then, ’said  Amanda,  ‘ I would  enter  your  family 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  213 

amid  confusion  and  altercation?  No,  my  lord,  rashly  or  clande» 
tinely  I never  will  consent  to  enter  it.’ 

‘ Is  this  the  happiness  I promised  myself  would  crown  our  recon- 
ciliation? ’ exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  rising  hastily  and  traversing 
the  apartment.  ‘ Is  an  obstinate  adherence  to  rigid  punctilio  the 
only  proof  of  regard  I shall  receive  from  Amanda?  Will  she 
make  no  trifling  sacriflce  to  the  man  who  adores  her,  and  whom 
she  professes  to  esteem  ? ’ 

‘ Any  sacrifice,  my  lord,  compatible  with  virtue  and  filial  duty, 
most  willingly  would  I make ; but  beyond  these  limits  I must  not, 
cannot,  will  not  step.  Cold,  joyless,  and  unworthy  of  your  ac- 
ceptance would  be  the  hand  you  would  receive  if  given  against  my 
conviction  of  what  was  right.  Oh,  never  may  the  hour  arrive  in 
which  I should  blush  to  see  my  father;  in  which  I should  be  ac- 
cused of  injuring  the  honor  intrusted  to  my  charge,  and  feel  op- 
pressed with  the  consciousness  of  having  planted  thorns  in  the 
breast  that  depended  on  me  for  happiness.’ 

‘ Do  not  be  too  inflexible,  my  Amanda,’  cried  Lord  Mortimer, 
resuming  his  seat,  ‘ nor  suffer  too  great  a degree  of  refinement  to 
involve  you  in  wretchedness ; felicity  is  seldom  attained  without 
some  pain ; a little  resolution  on  your  side  would  overcome  any 
difiiculties  that  lay  between  us  and  it;  when  the  act  was  past,  my 
father  would  naturally  lose  his  resentment,  from  perceiving  its 
inefficacy,  and  family  concord  would  speedily  be  restored.  Ara- 
minta  adores  you ; with  rapture  would  she  receive  her  dear  and 
lovely  sister  to  her  bosom ; your  father,  happy  in  your  happiness, 
would  be  convinced  his  notions  heretofore  were  too  scrupulous 
and  that  in  complying  with  my  wishes  you  had  neither  violated 
your  own  delicacy  nor  tarnished  his  honor.’ 

‘ Ah,  my  lord,  your  arguments  have  not  the  effect  you  desire. 
I cannot  be  deluded  by  them,  to  view  things  in  the  light  you  wish. 
To  unite  myself  clandestinely  to  you  would  be  to  fly  in  the  face 
of  parental  authority ; to  be  proposed  to  Lord  Cherbury,  when  al- 
most certain  of  a refusal,  would  not  only  subject  me  to  insult,  but 
dissolve  the  friendship  which  has  hitherto  subsisted  between  his 
lordship  and  my  father.  Situated  as  we  are,  our  only  expedient 
is  to  separate ; ’tis  absurd  to  think  longer  of  a connection  against 
which  there  are  such  obstacles ; the  task  of  trying  to  forget  will 
be  easier  to  you,  my  lord,  than  you  now  perhaps  imagine ; the 
scenes  you  must  be  engaged  in  are  well  calculated  to  expunge  pain- 
ful remembrances;  in  the  retirement  my  destiny  has  doomed  me 
to  my  efforts  will  not  be  wanting  to  render  me  equally  successful.^ 

The  tears  trickled  down  Amanda’s  pale  cheeks  as  she  spoke  ; she 
believ^ed  that  they  must  part,  and  the  belief  was  attended  with  a 
pang  of  unutterable  anguish  : pleased  and  pained  by  her  sensi- 
bility, Lord  Mortimer  bent  forward  and  looked  into  her  face. 


214 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


‘ Are  these  tears,'  said  he,  ‘to  enforce  me  to  the  only  expedient 
you  say  remains  ? Ah,  my  Amanda,’  clasping  her  to  his  breast, 
‘ the  task  of  forgetting  you  could  never  be  accomplished— could 
never  be  attempted  ; life  would  be  tasteless  if  not  spent  with  you  ^ 
never  will  I relinquish  the  delightful  hope  of  a union  yet  taking 
place.  A sudden  thought,’  resumed  he,  after  pausing  a few  min- 
utes, ‘ has  just  occurred,  I have  an  aunt,  the  only  remaining 
sister  of  Lord  Cherbury,  a generous,  tender,  exalted  woman  ; I 
have  ever  been  her  particular  favorite  ; my  Amanda,  I know,  is 
the  very  kind  of  being  she  would  select,  if  the  choice  devolved  on 
her,  for  my  wife  ; she  is  now  in  the  country  ; I will  write  im- 
mediately, inform  her  of  our  situation,  and  entreat  her  to  come 
up  to  town  to  use  her  influence  with  my  father  in  our  favor. 
Her  fortune  is  large,  from  the  bequest  of  a rich  relation  ; and  from 
the  generosity  of  her  disposition  I have  no  doubt  she  would 
render  the  loss  of  Lady  Euphrasia’s  fortune  very  immaterial  to 
her  brother.  This  is  the  only  scheme  I can  possibly  devise  for  the 
completion  of  our  happiness,  according  to  your  notions,  and  I hope 
it  meets  your  approbation.’ 

It  appeared,  indeed,  a feasible  one  to  Amanda  ; and  as  it  could 
not  possibly  excite  any  ideas  unfavorable  to  her  father’s  integrity, 
she  gave  her  consent  to  its  being  tried. 

Her  heart  felt  relieved  of  an  oppressive  load,  as  the  hope  revived 
that  it  might  be  accomplished.  Lord  Mortimer  wiped  away  her 
tears  ; and  the  cloud  which  hung  over  them  both  being  dispersed, 
they  talked  with  pleasure  of  future  days.  Lord  Mortimer  de- 
scribed the  various  schemes  he  had  planned  for  their  mode  of  life. 
Amanda  smiled  at  the  easiness  with  which  he  contrived  them, 
and  secretly  wished  he  might  find  it  as  easy  to  realize  as  to  project. 

‘ Though  the  retired  path  of  life,’  said  he,  ‘ might  be  more  agree- 
able to  us  than  the  frequented  and  public  one,  we  must  make 
some  little  sacrifice  of  inclination  to  the  community  to  which  we 
belong.  On  an  elevated  station  and  affluent  fortune  there  are 
claims  from  subordinate  ranks  which  cannot  be  avoided  without 
injuring  them.  Neither  should  I wish  to  hide  the  beautiful  gem 
I shall  possess  in  obscurity  ; but,  after  a winter  of  what  I call 
moderate  dissipation,  we  will  hasten  to  the  sequestered  shades  of 
Tudor  Hall.’  He  dwelt  with  pleasure  on  the  calm  and  rational 
joys  they  should  experience  there  ; nor  could  forbear  hinting  at 
the  period  when  new  tendernesses,  new  sympathies,  would  be 
awakened  in  their  souls  ; when  little  prattling  beings  should  frolic 
before  them,  and  literally  strew  roses  in  their  paths.  He  ex- 
pressed his  wish  of  having  Fitzalan  a constant  resident  with  them: 
and  was  proceeding  to  mention  some  alterations  he  intended  at 
Tudor  Hall,  when  the  return  of  Lady  Grey  stock’s  carriage  effect* 
ually  disturbed  him.  Lord  Mortimer,  however,  had  time  to  as 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


215 


sure  Amanda,  ere  she  entered  the  room,  that  he  had  no^doubt  but 
everything  would  be  soon  settled  according  to  their  wishes,  and 
that  he  would  take  every  opportunity  her  ladyship’s  absence  gave 
him  of  visiting  her. 

‘ So,  so,’  said  Lad^  Grreystock,  coming  into  the  room,  ‘ this  has 
been  Miss  Fitzalan’s  levee-day.  Why,  I declare,  my  dear,  now 
that  I know  of  the  agreeable  tete-a-tetes  you  can  enjoy, . I shall 
feel  no  uneasiness  at  leaving  you  to  yourself.’ 

Amanda  blushed  deeply  ; and  Lord  Mortimer  thought  in  this 
speech  he  perceived  a degree  of  irony  which  seemed  to  say  all  was 
not  right  in  the  speaker’s  heart  towards  Amanda,  and  on  this  ac- 
count felt  more  anxious  than  ever  to  have  her  under  his  own  pro- 
tection. Animated  by  the  idea  that  this  would  soon  be  the  case, 
he  told  her  ladyship,  smiling,  ‘she  should  be  obliged  to  him  or 
any  other  person  w^ho  could  relieve  her  mind  from  uneasiness,’ 
and  departed.  This  had  been  a busy  and  interesting  day  to 
Amanda,  and  the  variety  of  emotions  it  had  given  rise  to  produced 
a languor  in  her  mind  and  frame  she  could  not  shake  off. 

Her  expectations  were  not  as  sanguine  as  Lord  Mortimer’s. 
Once  severely  disappointed,  she  dreaded  again  to  give  too  great  a 
latitude  to  hope.  Happiness  was  in  view,  but  she  doubted  much 
whether  it  would  ever  be  within  her  reach  ; yet  the  pain,  of  sus- 
pense she  endeavored  to  alleviate  by  reflecting  that  every  event 
was  under  the  direction  of  a superior  Being,  who  knew  best  what 
would  constitute  the  felicity  of  His  creatures. 

Lady  Greystock  learned  from  her  maid  the  length  of  Lord 
Mortimer’s  visit,  and  she  was  convinced  from  that  circumstance, 
as  well  as  from  the  look  and  absent  manner  of  Amanda,  that 
something  material  had  happened  in  the  course  of  it.  In  the  even- 
ing they  were  engaged  to  a party,  and  ere  they  separated  after 
dinner  to  dress  for  it,  a plain-looking  woman  was  shown  into  the 
room,  whom  Amanda  instantly  recollected  to  be  the  person  at 
whose  house  she  and  her  father  had  lodged  on  quitting  Devonshire 
to  secrete  themselves  from  Colonel  Belgrave.  This  woman  had 
been  bribed  to  serve  him,  and  had  forced  several  letters  upon 
Amanda,  who,  therefore,  naturally  abhorred  the  sight  of  a person 
that  had  joined  in  so  infamous  a plot  against  her  ; and  to  her  ex- 
clamation of  surprise  and  pleasure  only  returned  a cool  bow,  and 
directly  left  the  room.  She  was  vexed  at  seeing  this  woman. 
The  conduct  of  Colonel  Belgrave  had  hitherto  been  concealed, 
from  motives  of  pride  and  delicacy  ; and  to  Lady  Greystock,  T>f  all 
other  beings,  she  wished  it  not  revealed.  Her  only  hope  of  its 
not  being  so  was  that  this  woman,  on  her  own  account,  would 
not  mention  it,  as  she  must  be  conscious  that  her  efforts  to  serve 
him  were  not  undiscovered. 

Mrs.  Jennings  had  been  housekeeper  to  Lady  Greystock  during 


216 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


her  residence  in  England,  and  so  successfully  ingratiated  herself 
into  her  favor  that,  though  dismissed  from  her  service,  she  yet 
retained  it.  Lady  Greystock  was  surprised  to  see  she  and  Amanda 
knew  each  other,  and  inquired  minutely  how  the  acquaintance 
had  commenced.  The  manner  in  which  she  mentioned  Amanda 
convinced  Mrs.  Jennings  she  was  not  high  in  her  estimation,  and 
from  this  conviction  she  thought  she  might  safely  assert  any 
falsehoods  she  pleased  against  her.  As  she  knew  enough  of  her 
lady’s  disposition  to  be  assured  she  never  would  contradict  an  as- 
sertion to  the  prejudice ^of  a, person  she  disliked  by  what  she 
designed  saying,  she  trusted  anything  Amanda  might  say  against 
her  would  appear  malicious,  ^and  that  she  should  also  be  revenged 
for  the  disdainful  air  with  which  she  had  regarded  her. 

She  told  her  ladyship,  “that  near  a year  back  Miss  Fitzalan 
had  been  a lodger  of  hers,  as  also  an  old  officer,  she  called  her 
father  ; but  had  she  known  what  kind  of  people  they  were,  she 
never  would  have  admitted  them  into  her  house.  Miss  was 
followed  by  such  a set  of  gallants,  she  really  thought  the  repu- 
tation of  her  house  would  have  been  ruined.  Among  them  was 
a Colonel  Belgrave,  a sad  rake,  who,  she  believed,  was  the  favorite. 
She  was  determined  on  making  them  decamp,  vrhen  suddenly  Miss 
went  off,  nobody  knew  where,  but  it  might  easily  be  guessed.  She 
did  not  travel  alone,  for  the  colonel  disappeared  at  the  same  time.’^ 

The  character  of  Fitzalan,  and  the  uniform  propriety  of 
Amanda’s  conduct,  forbade  Lady  Greystock’s  giving  implicit 
credit  to  what  Mrs.  Jennings  said.  She  perceived  in  it  the  ex- 
aggerations of  malice  and  falsehood,  occasioned,  she  supposed  by 
disappointed  avarice,  or  offended  pride.  She  resolved,  however, 
to  relate  all  she  heard  to  the  marchioness,  .without  betraying  the 
smallest  doubt  of  its  veracity. 

It  may  appear  strange  that  Lady  Greystock,  after  taking 
Amanda,  unsolicited,  under  her  protection,  should  without  any 
cause  for  enmity,  seek  to  injure  her — but  Lady  Greystock  was  a 
woman  devoid  of  principle.  From  selfish  motives  she  had  taken 
Amanda,  and  from  selfish  motives  she  was  ready  to  sacrifice  her. 
Her  ladyship  had  enjoyed  so  much  happiness  in  her  matrimonial 
connections,  that  she  had  no  objection  again  to  enter  the  lists  of 
Hymen,  and  Lord  Cherbury  was  the  object  at  which  her  present 
wishes  pointed.  The  marchioness  had  hinted,  in  pretty  plain 
terms,  that  if  she  counteracted  Lord  Mortimer’s  intentions  respect- 
ing Amanda,  she  would  forward  hers  relative  to  Lord  Cherbury. 

She  thought  what  Mrs.  Jennings  had  alleged  would  effectually 
forward  their  plans,  as  she  knew,  if  called  upon,  she  would  sup- 
port it.  The  next  morning  she  went  to  Portman  Square,  to 
communicate  her  important  intelligence  of  the  marchioness  and 
Lady  Euphrasia. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


217 


Joy  and  exultation  sat  upon  their  features  at  receiving*  thia 
interesting  communication,  which  opened  so  charming  a pros 
pect  of  separating  Lord  Mortimer  from  Amanda,  by  giving  them 
the  power  of  injuring  her  character.  This  joy  and  exultation 
they  deemed  requisite  for  some  time  to  conceal.  They  considered 
their  measures  would  be  more  successful  for  being  gradually 
brought  about,  and,  therefore,  resolved  rather  to  undermine,  than 
directly  strike  at  the  peace  of  Amanda. 

Like  Lady  Grey  stock,  they  disbelieved  Mrs.  Jennings’  tale  ; 
but,  like  her  ladyship,  confined  this  disbelief  to  their  own  bosoms. 
In  the  manner,  the  appearance  of  Amanda,  there  was  an  in- 
nocence, a mildness,  that  denoted  something  holy  dwelt  within 
iier  breast,  and  forbade  the  entrance  of  any  impure  or  wayward 
passion  ; besides,  from  a gentleman  who  had  resided  in  Devon- 
shire, they  learned  the  distress  Fitzalan  was  reduced  to,  by 
Belgrave  s revenge  for  the  virtue  of  his  daughter.  This  gentle- 
man was  now,  however,  on  the  Continent,  and  they  had  no  fear 
of  their  allegations  against  Amanda  being  contradicted,  or  their 
schemes  against  her  being  overthrown. 

After  some  consultation,  it  was  agreed,  as  a means  of  expedit- 
ing their  plot,  that  Lady  Greystock  and  Amanda  should  imme- 
diately remove  to  the  marchioness’s  house.  By  this  change  of 
abode,  too.  Lord  Mortimer  would  be  prevented  taking  any  material 
step  relative  to  Amanda,  till  the  period  arrived,  when  his  own 
inclination  would,  most  probably,  render  any  further  trouble  on 
that  account  unnecessary. 

Lady  Greystock,  on  her  return  to  Pall  Mall,  after  a warm  eu- 
logium  on  the  friendship  of  the  marchioness,  mentioned  the  invi- 
tation she  had  given  them  to  her  house,  which  she  declared  she 
could  not  refuse,  as  it  was  made  with  an  ardent  desire  of  enjoying 
more  of  their  society  than  she  had  hitherto  done,  during  their 
short  stay  in  London.  She  also  told  Amanda  that  both  the  mar- 
chioness and  Lady  Euphrasia  had  expressed  a tender  regard  for 
her,  and  a wish  of  proving  to  the  world  that  any  coolness  which 
existed  between  their  families  was  removed  by  her  becoming  their 
guest. 

This  projected  removal  was  extremely  disagreeable  to  Amanda, 
as  it  not  only  terminated  the  morning  interviews  which  were  to 
take  place  between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer,  during  the  absence  of 
Lady  Greystock  with  her  lawyers,  but  threatened  to  impose  a re- 
straint upon  her  looks,  as  well  as  actions;  being  confident,  from 
the  views  and  suspicions  of  Lady  Euphrasia,  she  should  be  contin- 
ually watched  with  the  closest  circumspection.  Her  part,  how- 
ever, was  acquiescence.  The  lodgings  were  discharged,  and  the 
next  morning  they  took  up  their  residence  under  the  Marquis  of 
Roslin’s  roof,  to  the  infinite  surprise  and  mortification  of  Lord 


218 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Mortimer,  who,  like  Amanda,  anticipated  the  disagreeable  coib 
sequences  which  would  result  from  it. 

The  altered  manners  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia 
surprised  Amanda.  They  received  her  not  merely  with  polite- 
ness, but  affection  ; recapitulated  all  Lady  Greystock  had  already 
said  concerning  their  regard  ; bade  her  consider  herself  entirely 
at  homein  their  house,  and  appointed  a maid  solely  to  attend  her. 

Notwithstanding  their  former  cool,  even  contemptuous  conduct, 
Amanda,  the  child  of  innocence  and  simplicity,  could  not  believe 
the  alteration  in  their  manners  feigned';  she  rather  believed  that 
her  own  patience  and  humility  had  at  length  conciliated  their  re- 
gard. The  idea  pleased  her,  and  like  every  other,  which  she  sup- 
posed could  give  her  father  satisfaction,  it  was  instantly  commu- 
nicated to  him. 

She  found  herself  most  agreeably  mistaken  relative  to  the  re- 
straint she  had  feared.  She  was  perfect  mistress  of  her  own  time 
and  actions  ; and  when  she  saw  Lord  Mortimer  no  lowering  looks 
nor  studied  interference,  as  heretofore,  from  the  marchioness  or 
Lady  Euphrasia,  prevented  their  frequently  conversing  together. 
The  marchioness  made  her  several  elegant  presents,  and  Lady 
Euphrasia  frequently  dropped  the  formal  appellation  of  Miss  Fitz- 
alan  for  the  more  familiar  one  of  Amanda. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley,  agreeable  to  his  resolution  of  not  relin- 
quishing Amanda  without  another  effort  for  her  favor,  still  per- 
sisted in  his  attentions,  and  visited  constantly  at  the  marquis’s. 

Amanda  had  been  about  a fortnight  in  Portman  Square,  when 
she  went  one  night  with  the  marchioness.  Lady  Euphrasia,  Miss 
Malcolm,  and  Lady  Greystock  to  the  Pantheon.  Lord  Mortimer 
had  told  her  that,  if  he  could  possibly  leave  a particular  party  he 
was  engaged  to,  he  would  be  there.  She,  therefore,  on  that  ac- 
count, wished  to  keep  herself  disengaged  ; but  immediately  on 
her  entrance  she  was  joined  by  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  and  she 
found  she  must  either  dance  with  him  as  he  requested,  or  consent 
to  listen  to  his  usual  conversation  ; and  she  chose  the  first  as  being 
least  particular.  The  dancing  over  Sir  Charles  was  conducting 
hereto  get  some  refreshments,  when  a gentleman,  hastily  stepping 
forward,  saluted  him  by  his  name.  Amanda  started  at  the  sound 
of  his  voice  ; she  raised  her  eyes,  and  with  equal  horror  and  sur- 
prise beheld  Colonel  Belgrave. 

She  turned  pale,  trembled,  and  involuntarily  exclaimed,  ‘ Gra- 
cious Heaven ! ’ Her  soul  recoiled  at  his  sight,  as  if  an  evil  genius 
had  suddenly  darted  into  her  path  to  blast  her  hopes  of  happiness. 
Sickening  with  emotion,  her  head  grew  giddy,  and  she  caught  Sir 
Charles’s  arm  to  prevent  her  falling. 

Alarmed  by  her  paleness  and  agitation,  he  hastily  demanded 
the  cause  of  her  disorder,  willing  to  believe,  notwithstanding  what 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


219 


he  had  seen,  that  it  did  not  proceed  from  the  sight  of  Colonel  Beh 
grave.  ‘ Oh,  take  me,  take  me  from  this  room  ! ’ was  all,  in  falter- 
ing accents,  Amanda  could  pronounce,  still  leaning  on  him  for 
support.  Colonel  Belgrave  inquired  tenderly  what  he  could  do  to 
serve  her,  and  at  the  same  time  attempted  to  take  her  hand.  She 
shrunk  from  his  touch  with  a look  expressive  of  horror,  and  again 
besought  Sir  Charles  to  take  lier  from  the  room,  and  procure  her 
a conveyance  home.  Her  agitation  now  became  contagious.  It 
was  visible  to  Sir  Charles  that  it  proceeded  from  seeing  Colonel 
jdelgrave,  and  he  trembled  as  he  supported  her. 

Belgrave  offered  his  services  in  assisting  to  support  her  from 
the  room,  but  she  motioned  with  her  hand  to  repulse  him. 

At  the  door  they  met  Lord  Mortimer  entering.  Terrified  by 
the  situation  of  Amanda,  all  caution,  all  reserve  forsook  him, 
and  his  rapid  and  impassioned  inquiries  betrayed  the  tender  in- 
terest she  had  in  his  heart.  Unable  to  answer  them  herself.  Sir 
Charles  replied  for  her,  saying,  ‘ She  had  been  taken  extremely 
111  after  dancing,’  and  added,  ‘he  would  resign  her  to  his  lord- 
ship’s  protection  while  he  went  to  procure  her  a chair.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  received  the  lovely  trembler  in  his  arms.  He 
softly  called  her  his  Amanda,  the  beloved  of  his  soul,  and  she 
began  to  revive.  His  presence  was  at  once  a relief  and  com- 
fort to  her,  and  his  language  soothed  the  perturbations  of  her 
mind;  but  as  she  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder,  she  beheld 
Colonel  Belgrav^e  standing  near  them;  his  invidious  eyes  fast- 
ened on  her.  She  averted  her  head,  and  saying  the  air  would 
do  her  good.  Lord  Mortimer  led  her  forward,  and  took  this  op- 
portunity of  expressing  his  wishes  for  the  period  when  he  should 
be  at  liberty  to  watch  over  her  with  guardian  care,  soothe  every 
weakness  and  soften  every  care. 

In  a few  minutes  Sir  Charles  returned,  and  told  her  he  had 
procured  a chair.  She  thanked  him  with  grateful  sweetness  for 
his  attention,  and  requested  Lord  Mortimer  to  acquaint  the  ladies 
with  the  reason  of  her  abrupt  departure.  His  lordship  wished 
himself  to  have  attended  her  to  Portman  Square,  but  she  thought 
:.t  would  appear  too  particular,  and  would  not  suffer  him.  She 
retired  to  her  room  immediately  on  her  return,  and  endeavored, 
though  unsuccessfully,  to  compose  her  spirits. 

The  distress  she  suffered  from  Belgrave’ s conduct  had  left  an 
impression  on  her  mind  which  could  not  be  erased.  The  terror 
his  presence  inspired  was  too  powerful  for  reason  to  con- 
quer, and  raised  the  most  gloomy  presages  in  her  mind.  She  be- 
lieved him  capable  of  any  villainjr.  His  looks  had  declared  a 
continuance  of  illicit  love.  She  trembled  at  the  idea  of  his 
stratagems  being  renewed.  Her  apprehensions  were  doubly  pain 
ful  from  the  necessity  of  concealment,  lest  those  dearer*  to  her 


220 


THIi  JIIILDREJS  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


than  existence  should  be  involved  in  danger  on  her  account 
To  Heaven  she  looked  up  for  protection,  and  the  terrors  of  lier 
heart  were  somewhat  lessened,  conscious  that  Heaven  could  ren- 
der the  aims  of  Belgrave  against  her  peace  as  abortive  as  those 
against  her  innocence  had  been. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley  parted  from  Lord  Mortimer  immediately 
after  Amanda’ s departure,  and  returned  arm  in  arm  with  Bel- 
grave  to  the  room.  ‘Belgrave,’  said  he  abruptly,  after  musing 
some  minutes,  ‘ you  know  Miss  Fitzalan?  ’ 

Belgrave  answered  not  hastily.  He  appeared  as  if  deliberating 
on  the  reply  he  should  give.  At  last,  ‘ I do  know  Miss  Fitz- 
alan,’cried  he:  ‘ her  father  was  my  tenant  in  Devonshire;  she 
is  one  of  the  loveliest  girls  I ever  knew.’  ‘Lovely,  indeed,^ 
said  Sir  Charles,  with  a deep  and  involuntary  sigh ; ‘ but  it  is 
somewhat  extraordinary  to  me  that,  instead  of  noticing  you  as  a 
friend  or  acquaintance,  she  should  look  alarmed  and  agitated,  as 
if  she  had  seen  an  enemy.’  ‘ My  dear  Bingley,’  exclaimed  Bel- 
grave, ‘ surely,  at  this  time  of  day,  you  cannot  be  a stranger  to 
the  unaccountable  caprices  of  the  female  mind.’  ‘ ’Tis  very 
extraordinary  to  me,  I own,’  resumed  Sir  Charles,  ‘ that  Miss 
Fitzalan  should  behave  as  she  did  to  you.  Were  you  and  her 
family  ever  very  intimate?  ’ 

An  invidious  smile  lurked  on  Belgrave’s  countenance  at  this 
question. 

‘Belgrave,’  exclaimed  Sir  Charles  passionately,  ‘your  man- 
ner appears  so  mysterious  that  it  distracts  me.  If  friendship  will 
not  induce  you  to  account  for  it,  my  intentions  relative  to  Miss 
Fitzalan  will  compel  me  to  insist  on  your  doing  so.  ’ ‘ Come, 

come,  Bingley,  ’ replied  the  colonel,  ‘ this  is  not  a country  for  ex- 
torting confession.  However,  seriously,  you  might  depend  on  my 
honor,  exclusive  of  my  friendship,  to  conceal  nothing  from  you 
in  which  you  were  materially  interested.  ’ So  saying  he  snatched 
away  his  arm,  rushed  into  the  crowd,  and  instantly  disappeared. 

This  assurance,  however,  could  not  calm  the  disquietude  of 
Sir  Charles.  His  soul  was  tortured  with  impatience  and  anx- 
iety for  an  explanation  of  the  mystery,  which  the  agitation  of 
Amanda  and  the  evasive  answers  of  Belgrave  had  betrayed.  He 
sought  the  latter  through  the  room  till  convinced  of  his  departure, 
and  resolved  the  next  morning  to  entreat  him  to  deal  candidly 
with  him. 

Agreeably  to  this  resolution,  he  was  preparing,  after  breakfast, 
for  his  visit,  when  a letter  was  brought  him  which  contained  the 
following  lines : 

If  Sir  Charles  Bingley  has  the  least  regard  for  his  honor  or  tranquillity,  he  will  immedi- 
ately relinquish  his  intentions  relative  to  Miss  Fitzalan.  This  caution  comes  from  a 
sincere  friend— from  a person  whom  delicacy,  not  want  of  veracity,  urges  to  this  secrel 
mode  of  giving  it. 


THE  CHILDREIS^  01  THE  ABBEY. 


221 


Sir  Charles  perused  and  re-perused  the  letter,  as  if  doubting 
the  evidence  of  his  eyes.  He  at  last  flung  it  from  him,  and  clasping 
his  hands  together  exclaimed:  ‘This  is,  indeed,  a horrible  ex- 
planation.’ He  took  up  the  detested  paper.  Again  he  examined 
the  characters,  and  recognized  the  writing  of  Colonel  Belgrave, 
He  hastily  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  with  the  paper  in  his  hand, 
flew  directly  to  his  house.  The  colonel  was  alone. 

‘ Belgrave,  ’ said  Sir  Charles,  in  almost  breathless  agitation, 
‘are  you  the  author  of  this  letter?’  presenting  it  to  him. 

Belgrave  took  it,  read  it,  but  continued  silent. 

‘O  Belgrave!’  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  in  a voice  trembling 
with  agony,  ‘pity  and  relieve  my  suspense. ' ‘ I am  the  author 

of  it ,’ replied  Belgrave,  with  solemnity;  ‘Miss  Fitzalan  and  I 
were  once  tenderly  attached.  I trust  I am  no  deliberate  libertine ; 
but,  when  a lovely,  seducing  girl  was  thrown  purposely  in  my 

way ’ ‘ Oh,  stop,  ’ said  Sir  Charles,  ‘ to  me  any  extenuation 

of  your  conduct  is  unnecessary ; ’tis  sufficient  to  know  that  Miss 
Fitzalan  and  I are  forever  separated.’  He  leaned  on  a table,  and 
covered  his  face  with  a handkerchief. 

‘ The  shock  I have  received,  ’ said  he,  ‘ almost  unmans  me. 
Amanda  was,  alas  I I must  say  is,  dear,  inexpressibly  dear  to  my 
soul.  I thought  her  the  most  lovely,  the  most  estimable  of  women ; 
and  the  anguish  I now  feel  is  more  on  her  account  than  my  own. 
I cannot  bear  the  idea  of  the  contempt  which  may  fall  upon  her. 
O Belgrave,  ’tis  melancholy  to  behold  a human  being,  so  en- 
dowed by  nature  as  she  is,  insensible  or  unworthy  of  her  blessings. 
Amanda,’  he  continued,  after  a pause,  ‘ never  encouraged  me;  I, 
therefore,  cannot  accuse  her  of  intending  deceit.’ 

‘ She  never  encouraged  you,’  replied  Belgrave,  ‘ because  she  was 
ambitious  of  a higher  title.  Amanda,  beneath  a specious  appear- 
ance of  innocence,  conceals  a light  disposition  and  a designing 
heart.  She  aspires  to  Mortimer’s  hand,  and  may  probably  suc- 
ceed, for  his  language  and  attentions  to  her  last  night  were  those 
of  a tender  lover.’ 

‘I  shall  return  immediately  to  Ireland,’  said  Sir  Charles,  ‘and 
endeavor  to  forget  I have  ever  seen  her.  She  has  made  me  in- 
deed experience  all  the  fervency  of  love,  and  bitterness  of  dis- 
appointment. What  I felt  for  her,  I think  I shall  never  again  feel 
for  any  woman. 

‘ I’ll  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love, 

And  on  my  eyelids  shall  conjecture  hang. 

To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm. 

And  never  more  shall  it  be  gracious.’ 

Sir  Charles  Bingley  and  Colonel  Belgrave,  in  early  life,  had 
contracted  a friendship  for  each  other  which  time  had  strength- 
ened in  one,  but  reduced  to  a mere  shadow  in  the  other.  On  meet 


222  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

ing  the  colonel  unexpectedly  in  town,  Sir  Charles  had  informed 
him  of  his  intentions  relative  to  Amanda.  His  heart  throbbed  at 
the  mention  of  her  name.  He  had  long  endeavored  to  discover 
her.  Pride,  love,  and  revenge  were  all  concerned  in  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  designs,  which  disappointment  had  only  stimulat- 
ed. He  was  one  of  those  determined  characters  which  never  relin- 
quish a purpose  ‘though  heaven  and  earth  that  purpose  crossed.^ 
The  confidence  Sir  Charles  reposed  in  him,  joined  to  his  warm 
and  unsuspicious  temper,  convinced  him  he  would  be  credulous 
enough  to  believe  any  imputation  he  should  cast  on  Amanda. 
He  therefore  lost  no  time  in  contriving  this  execrable  scheme,  with- 
out the  smallest  compunction,  for  destroying  the  reputation  of  an 
innocent  girl,  or  injuring  the  happiness  of  an  amiable  man. 

Remo . ed  from  the  protection  of  her  father,  he  believed  his 
destined  . ictim  could  not  escape  the  snare  he  should  spread  for 
her;  and  as  a means  of  expediting  his  success,  under  the  appear- 
ance of  feeling,  urged  Sir  Charles’s  return  to  Ireland. 

The  easy  credit  which  Sir  Charles  gave  to  the  vile  allegations  of 
Belgrave  cannot  be  wondered  at,  when  his  long  intimacy  and  to- 
tal ignorance  of  his  real  character  are  considered.  He  knew  Eel- 
grave  to  be  a gay  man,  but  he  never  imagined  him  to  be  a hard- 
ened libertine.  Besides,  he  never  could  have  supposed  any  man 
would  have  been  so  audacious,  or  sufficiently  base,  as  to  make  such 
an  assertion  as  Belgrave  had  done  against  Amanda,  without  truth 
for  his  support. 

The  errors  of  his  friend,  though  the  source  of  unspeakable  an- 
guish to  him,  were  more  pitied  than  condemned,  as  he  rather  be- 
lieved they  proceeded  from  the  impetuosity  of  passion  than  the 
deliberation  of  design,  and  that  they  were  long  since  sincerely  re- 
pented of. 

Amanda  could  not  be  forgotten  ; the  hold  she  had  on  his  heart 
could  not  easily  be  shaken  off  ; and  like  the  recording  angel,  he 
was  often  tempted  to  drop  a tear  over  her  faults,  and  obliterate 
them  forever  from  his  memory.  This,  however,  was  considered 
the  mere  suggestion  of  weakness,  and  he  ordered  immediate  prep- 
arations to  be  made  for  his  return  to  Ireland. 


CHAPTER  XXYin. 

Ob,  how  this  tyrant  doubt  torments  my  breast  f 
My  thoughts  like  birds,  who,  frighted  from  their  refit, 

Around  the  place  where  all  was  hashed  before, 

Flutter,  and  hardly  settle  any  more. — Otway. 

Lord  Mortimer,  distressed  by  the  indisposition  of  Amanda, 
hastened,  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual  (for  his  morning  visits),  to 
Portman  Square,  and  was  ushered  into  Lady  Euplirasia’s  dressing 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


223 


room,  where  she  and  Miss  Malcolm,  who  had  continued  with  her 
the  preceding  night,  were  sitting  tete-a-tete  at  breakfast.  His  lord* 
ship  was  a welcome  visitor,  but  it  was  soon  obvious  on  whose  ac- 
count he  had  made  his  appearance,  for  scarcely  were  the  usual 
compliments  over,  ere  he  inquired  about  Miss  Fitzalan. 

Lady  Euphrasia  said  she  was  still  unwell,  and  had  not  yet  left 
her  apartment.  ‘ She  has  not  recovered  her  surprise  of  last  night, 
exclaimed  Miss  Malcolm,  with  a malicious  smile. 

‘nWhat  surprise?  ’ asked  his  lordship.  ‘ Dear  me,’  replied  Miss 
Malcolm,  ‘ was  not  your  lordship  present  at  the  timeshe  met  Colonel 
Belgrave?  ’ ‘ No,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  changing  color,  ‘ I was 

not  present.  But  what  has  Colonel  Belgmve  to  say  to  Miss  Fitz- 
alan? ’ asked  he,  in  an  agitated  voice.  ‘ That  is  a question  your 
lordship  must  put  to  the  young  lady  herself,’  answered  Miss  Mal- 
colm. ‘ Now,  I declare,’  cried  Lady  Euphrasia,  addressing  her 
friend,  ‘ ’tis  very  probable  her  illness  did  not  proceed  from  seeing 
Colonel  Belgrave — you  know  she  never  mentioned  being  acquainted 
with  him,  though  her  father  was  his  tenant  in  Devonshire.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  grew  more  disturbed,  and  rose  abruptly. 

Lady  Euphrasia  mentioned  their  intention  of  going  that  evening 
to  the  play,  and  invited  him  to  be  of  the  party.  He  accepted  her 
invitation,  and  retired. 

His  visible  distress  was  a source  of  infinite  mirth  to  the  young 
ladies,  which  they  indulged  the  moment  he  quitted  the  room. 
The  circumstance  relative  to  Belgrave  the  marchioness  had  in- 
formed them  of,  as  she  and  Lady  Greystock  were  near  Amanda 
when  she  met  him. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  unhappy.  The  mind  which  has  once  har- 
bored suspicion  will,  from  the  most  trivial  circumstance,  be  tempted 
again  to  give  admission  to  the  unpleasing  guest— nor  was  it  a trivial 
circumstance  which  discomposed  the  too  susceptible  heart  of  Mor- 
timer. The  sudden  illness  of  Amanda,  her  extraordinary  agitation, 
her  eagerness  to  quit  the  room,  the  close,  though  silent  attendance 
of  Belgrave — all  these,  I say,  when  recalled  to  recollection,  gave 
an  air  of  probability  to  Miss  Malcolm’s  insinuation  that  her  dis- 
order was  occasioned  by  seeing  him.  From  residing  more  con- 
stantly in  England  than  Sir  Charles  Bingley  had  done  he  had  had 
more  opportunities  of  learning  Belgrave’s  real  character,  which  he 
knew  to  be  that  of  a professed  libertine.  . It  was  strange,  he  thought, 
that  when  Amanda  informed  him  she  once  resided  in  Devonshire, 
she  should  conceal  her  father  being  the  colonel’s  tenant.  He  began 
to  think  her  reluctance  to  a clandestine  and  immediate  marriage 
might  have  proceeded  from  some  secret  attachment,  and  not  from 
the  strict  adherence  to  filial  duty  which  had  exalted  her  so  much 
in  his  opinion. 

Yet  the  idea  was  scarcely  formed  ere  he  endeavored  to  suppress  it» 


224 


THE  children  of  THE  ABBEY. 


He  started,  as  if  from  an  uneasy  dream,  and  wondered  how  he 
could  have  conceived  this  or  any  other  idea  injurious  to  Amanda. 
He  felt  a degree  of  remorse  at  having  allowed  her,  for  a moment, 
to  be  lessened  in  his  opinion — her  tenderness,  her  purity,  he  said  to 
himself,  could  not  be  feigned;  no,  she  was  a treasure  greater 
than  he  deserved  to  possess;  nor  would  he,  like  a wayward  son 
of  error,  ding  away  the  happiness  he  had  so  long  desired  to  obtain. 

The  calm  this  resolution  produced  was  but  transient.  Doubts 
had  been  raised,  and  doubts  could  not  be  banished ; he  was  inclined 
to  think  them  unjust,  yet  had  not  power  to  dispel  them.  Vainly 
he  applied  to  the  ideas  which  had  heretofore  been  such  consolatory 
resources  of  comfort  to  him — namely,  that  his  father  would  con- 
sent to  his  union  with  Amanda,  through  the  interference  of  his 
aunt,  and  the  felicity  he  should  enjoy  in  that  union.  An  unusual 
heaviness  clung  to  his  heart,  which,  like  a gloomy  sky,  cast  a shade 
of  sadness  over  every  prospect.  Thoughtful  and  pensive  he  reached 
home,  just  as  Sir  Charles  Bingley  was  entering  the  door,  who  in- 
formed him  he  had  just  received  a note  from  Lord  Cherbury,  desir- 
ing his  immediate  presence. 

Lord  Mortimer  attended  him  to  the  earl,  who  acquainted  him 
that  he  had  received  a letter  from  Mr.  Fitzalan,  in  which  he  ex- 
pressed a warm  sense  of  the  honor  Sir  Charles  did  his  family  by 
addressing  Miss  Fitzalan ; and  that  to  have  her  united  to  a character 
so  truly  estimable  would  give  him  the  truest  happiness,  from  the 
conviction  that  hers  would  be  secured  by  such  a union.  ‘ He  has 
written  to  his  daughter  expressing  his  sentiments,’  continued  Lord 
Cherbury.  ‘ I have,  therefore,  no  doubt,  Sir  Charles,  but  that 
everything  will  succeed  as  you  wish.’  ^ I am  sorry,  my  lord,^ 
cried  Sir  Charles,  with  an  agitated  voice,  and  a cheek  flushed  with 
emotion,  ‘ that  I ever  troubled  your  lordship  in  this  aflPair,  as  I 
have  now,  and  forever,  relinquished  all  ideas  of  a union  with  Miss 
Fitzalan.’  ‘ The  resolution  is  really  somewhat  extraordinary  and, 
•sudden,’ replied  the  earl,  ‘after  the  conversation  which  so  lately 
passed  between  us.’  ‘ Adopted,  however,  my  lord,  from  a 
thorough  conviction  that  happiness  could  never  be  attained  in  a 
union  with  that  young  lady. ' Sir  Charles’s  tenderness  for  Amanda 
was  still  undiminished ; he  wished  to  preserve  her  from  censure, 
and  thus  proceeded:  ‘ Your  lordship  must  allow  I could  have 
little  chance  of  happiness  in  allying  myself  to  a woman  who  has 
resolutely  and  uniformly  treated  me  with  indifference.  Passion 
blinded  my  reason  when  I addressed  your  lordship  relative  to  Miss 
Fitzalan ; but  its  mists  are  now  dispersed,  and  sober  reflectioii 
obliges  me  to  relinquish  a scheme  whose  accomplishment  couioi 
not  possibly  give  me  satisfaction.’  ‘You  are  certainly  the  best 
judge  of  your  own  actions,  Sir  Charles,’  replied  the  earl.  ‘My 
acting  in  the  affair  proceeded  from  a wish  to  serve  you,  as  well  as 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


225 


from  my  friendship  for  Captain  Fitzalan.  I must  suppose  your 
conduct  will  never  disparage  your  own  honor,  or  cast  a slight 
upon  Miss  Fitzalan.’  ‘ That,  my  lord,  you  may  be  assured  of,’  said 
Sir  Charles,  with  some  warmth ; ‘ my  actions  and  their  motives 
have  hitherto,  and  will  ever,  I trust,  bear  the  strictest  investigation. 
I cannot  retire  without  thanking  your  lordship  for  the  interest  you 
took  in  my  favor.  Had  things  succeeded  as  I then  hoped  and  ex- 
pected, I cannot  deny  but  I should  have  been  much  happier  than 
I am  at  present.’  He  then  bowed  and  retired. 

Lord  Mortimer  had  listened  with  astonishment  to  Sir  Charles’s 
relinquishment  of  Amanda.  Like  his  father,  he  thought  it  a 
sudden  and  extraordinary  resolution.  He  was  before  jealous  of 
Amanda  s love  ; he  was  now  jealous  of  her  honor.  The  agitation 
of  Sir  Charles  seemed  to  imply  even  a cause  more  powerful  than 
her  coldness  for  resigning  her.  He  recollected  that  the  baronet 
and  the  colonel  were  intimate  friends.  Distracted  by  apprehen* 
sions,  he  rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  overtook  Sir  Charles  ere  he 
had  quitted  the  square. 

‘Why,  Bingley,’  cried  he,  with  affected  gayety,  ‘I  thought 
you  too  valiant  a knight  to  be  easily  overcome  by  despair  ; and 
that,  without  first  trying  every  effort  to  win  her  favor,  you  never 
would  give  up  a fair  lady  you  had  set  your  heart  on.’  ‘ I leave 
such  efforts  for  your  lordship,’  replied  Sir  Charles,  ‘or  those  who 
have  equal  patience.’  ‘But  seriously,  Bmgley,  I think  this 
sudden  resignation  of  Miss  Fitzalan  somewhat  strange.  Why, 
last  night  I could  have  sworn  you  were  as  much  attached  to  her 
as  ever.  From  Lord  Cherbury’s  friendship  for  Captain  Fitzalan, 
I think  her,  in  some  degree,  under  his  protection  and  mine.  And 
as  the  particularity  of  your  attentions  attracted  observation,  I think 
your  abruptly  withdrawing  them  requires  explanation.’  ‘As 
Lord  Cherbury  was  the  person  I applied  to  relative  to  Miss 
Fitzalan,’  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  ‘and  as  he 'was  satisfied  with 
the  motive  I assigned  for  my  conduct,  be  assured,  my  lord,  I shall 
iiever  give  another  to  you.’  ‘Your  words,’  retorted  Lord  Morti* 
mer,  with  warmth,  ‘imply  that  there  was  another  motive  lor 
your  conduct  than  the  one  you  avowed.  What  horrid  inference 
may  not  be  drawn  from  such  an  insinuation  ? Oh,  Sir  Charles  t 
r-eputation  is  a fragile  flower,  which  the  slightest  breath  may 
injure.’  ‘My  lord,  if  Miss  Fitzalan’s  reputation  is  never  injur'''* 
but  by  my  means,  it  will  ever  continue  unsullied.’ 

‘ I cannot,  indeed,’  resumed  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘style  myself  her 
guardian,  but  I consider  myself  her  friend;  and  from  the  feelings 
of  friendship  shall  ever  evince  my  interest  in  her  welfare,  and 
resent  any  conduct  which  can  possibly  render  her  an  object  of  cen- 
sure to  any  being.’  ‘Allow  me  to  ask  your  lordship  one  ques- 
tion,’ cried  Sir  Charles,  ‘and  promise,  on  your  honor,  to  answef 


1226 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


it.’  ‘I  do  promise/  said  Lord  Mortimer.  ‘Then,  my  lord,  did 
you  ever  really  wish  I should  succeed  with  Miss  Fitzalan  ? ' 

Lord  Mortimer  colored.  ‘ You  expect,  Sir  Charles,  I shall 
answer  you  on  my  honor  ? Then,  really,  I never  did.’  ‘Your 
passions  and  mine,’ continued  Sir  Charles,  ‘are  impetuous.  We 
had  better  check  them  in  time,  lest  they  lead  us  to  lengths  we 
may  hereafter  repent  of.  Of  Miss  Fitzalan’s  fame,  be  assured,  no 
man  can  be  more  tenacious  than  I should.  I love  her  with  the 
truest  ardor.  Her  acceptance  of  my  proposals  would  have  given 
me  felicity.  My  suddenly  withdrawing  them  can  never  injure  her, 
when  I declare  my  motive  for  so  doing  was  her  indifference. 
Lord  Cherbury  is  satisfied  with  the  reason  I have  assigned  for 
a*esigning  her.  He  is  conscious  that  no  man  of  sensibility  could 
experience  happiness  with  a woman  in  whose  heart  he  bad  no 
interest.  This,  I suppose,  your  lordship  will  also  allow.’ 
‘ Certainly,’  replied  Lord  Mortimer.  ‘ Then,  it  strikes  me,  my 
lord,  that  it  is  your  conduct,  not  mine,  which  has  a tendency  to 
injure  Miss  Fitzalan.  That  it  is  your  words,  not  mine,  which  con- 
vey an  insinuation  against  her.  You  really  appear  as  if  con. 
scions  some  other  cause  existed,  which  would  have  made  me  re- 
linquish her,  without  the  one  I have  already  assigned  for  doing  so.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  instantly  convicted  of  the  justice  of  what 
Sir  Charles  said.  He  began  to  fear  his  warmth  would  really 
prove  prejudicial  to  Amanda,  betray  the  doubts  that  had  obtruded 
on  his  mind,  and  communicate  them  to  those  who  might  not  be 
equally  influenced  by  tenderness  and  delicacy  to  conceal  them. 

‘ You  are  right.  Sir  Charles,’  said  he,  ‘ in  what  you  have  said  ; 
‘ passion,  like  a bad  advocate,  hurts  the  cause  in  which  it  is  en- 
gaged. From  my  knowledge  of  your  character,  I should  have 
been  convinced  your  honor  would  have  prevented  any  improper 
conduct.  You  are  going  to  Ireland.  Permit  me,  Sir  Charles,  to 
offer  you  my  best  wishes  for  your  future  happiness.’ 

Sir  Charles  took  Lord  Mortimers  extended  hand.  He  re- 
?'pected  and  esteemed  his  lordship,  and  a mutual  interchange  of 
^ood  wishes  took  place  between  them,  as  this  was  the  last  inters 
view  they  expected  for  a long  time. 

The  indisposition  of  Amanda  was  more  of  the  mental  than  the 
bodily  kind,  and  on  the  first  intimation  of  a party  to  the  play  she 
agreed  to  join  it,  in  hopes  the  amusement  would  remove  her  de- 
‘jection.  Her  father’s  letter,  relative  to  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  had 
given  her  some  uneasiness  ; but  as  he  left  her  free  to  act,  she  con- 
tented herself  with  using  the  negative  he  allowed  her,  by  a sol- 
emn resolution  of  never  acting  contrary  to  his  inclinations,  and 
answered  his  letter  to  this  purpose. 

Lord  Mortimer  and  Freelove  attended  the  ladies  in  the  evening 
to  the  play.  His  lordship  found  an  opportunity  of  tenderly  in: 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


227 


quiring  after  Amanda’s  health.  When  they  were  seated  in  the 
house  he  perceived  a lady  in  another  box  to  whom  he  wished  to 
speak,  and  accordingly  left  his  party.  This  lady  offered  him  a 
seat  by  herself,  which  he  accepted.  She  was  a stranger  to 
Amanda,  young  and  extremely  beautiful.  Amanda,  however, 
had  none  of  that  foolish  weakness  which  could  make  her  dread  a 
rival  in  every  new  face,  or  feel  uneasiness  at  Lord  Mortimer’s  at- 
tention to  any  woman  but  herself.  Assured  that  his  affections  for 
her  were  founded  on  the  basis  of  esteem,  and  that  she  should  re. 
tain  them  while  worthy  of  esteem,  she  could,  without  being  dis^ 
composed  by  the  agreeable  conversation  he  appeared  to  be  enjoy- 
ing, fix  her  attention  on  the  stage  ; so  entirely,  indeed,  that  she 
observed  not  from  time  to  time,  the  glances  Lord  Mortimer  di- 
rected toward  her.  Not  so  his  fair  companion.  She  noticed 
the  wanderings  of  his  eyes,  and  her  own  involuntarily  pursued 
their  course.  She  was  speaking  at  the  moment,  but  suddenly 
stopped,  and  Lord  Mortimer  saw  her  change  color.  He  turned 
pale  himself,  and  in  a faltering  voice  asked  her,  ‘if  she  knev5 
the  lady  she  had  been  long  looking  at  ? ‘ Know  her  ? ’ replied 

she  ; ‘ Oh,  heavens  ! but  too  well.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  trembled  universally,  and  was  compelled  t© 
have  recourse  to  his  handkerceief  to  hide  his  emotion. 

It  was  by  Adel  a,  the  lovely  and  neglected  wife  of  Belgrave,  ha^ 
was  sitting.  She  had  been  a short  time  in  London,  and  her  ac- 
quaintance with  Lord  Mortimer  commenced  at  a ball,  where  she 
had  danced  with  him.  He  was  not  one  of  those  kind  of  men  who^ 
when  in  love,  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears  but  for  the  object  of  that 
love.  He  could  see  perfections  in  other  woman  besides  his: 
Amanda,  and  was  particularly  pleased  with  Mrs.  Belgrave.  He* 
instantly  perceived  that  she  knew  Amanda  ; also,  that  that 
knowledge  was  attended  with  pain.  The  well-known  profligacy 
of  her  husband  intruded  on  his  memory,  and  he  shuddered  at  the 
dreadful  thoughts  which  arose  in  his  mind. 

Curiosity  had  directed  the  eyes  of  Adela  to  Amanda,  but  admi- 
ration, and  an  idea  of  having  somewhere  seen  her  face,  riveted 
them  upon  her  ; at  last  the  picture  Oscar  Fitzalan  had  shown 
occurred  to  her  recollection,  and  she  was  immediately  convinced 
it  was  no  other  than  the  original  of  that  picture  she  now  saw. 
Shocked  at  the  sight  of  a person  who,  as  she  thought,  had  stepped 
(though  innocently)  between  her  and  felicity,  and  distressed  by 
the  emotions  which  past  scenes,  thus  recalled,  gave  rise  to,  she 
entreated  Lord  Mortimer  to  conduct  her  from  the  box,  that  she 
might  return  home. 

He  complied  with  her  request,  but  stopped  in  the  lobby,  and 
entreated  her  to  tell  him  ‘ where  she  had  known  the  lady  she  had 
so  attentively  regarded.’  Adela  hlushed,  and  would,  if  possible;r 


S28 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBET. 


have  evadecf  the  question  ; but  the  earnestness  of  his  lordship’s 
manner  compelled  her  to  answer  it.  She  said  ‘ she  had  no  per- 
sonal knowledge  of  the  lady,  but  recollected  her  face  from  hav- 
ing seen  her  picture  with  a gentleman.’  ‘And  who  was  the 
.gentleman  ? ’ asked  Lord  Mortimer,  with  a forced  smile  and  a 
faltering  voice.  ‘ That  ’ replied  Adela,  with  involuntary  quick- 
ness, ‘I  will  not  tell.’  ‘I  should  apologize,  indeed,’ cried  Lord 
Mortimer,  recollecting  himself,  ‘ for  a curiosity  which  may  ap- 
pear impertinent.’  He  led  her  to  a chair,  and  deliberated  whether 
he  should  not  follow  her  example  in  quitting  the  house. 

Miss  Malcolm  had  first  made  him  uneasy;  uneasiness  intro- 
duced doubts  which  Sir  Charles  Bingley  had  increased,  and  Mrs. 
Belgrave  almost  confirmed.  He  dreaded  a horrid  confirmation 
of  his  fears ; the  picture,  like  Othello’s  handkerchief,  was  a source 
of  unspeakable  anguish.  The  agitation  that  Mrs.  Belgrave  had  be- 
trayed  on  mentioning  it,  joined  to  her  concealment  of  the  gentle- 
man she  had  seen  it  with,  tempted  him  to  believe  he  was  no  other 
than  her  husband. 

Yet,  that  he  might  not  be  accused  of  yielding  rashly  to  jealousy, 
he  resolved  to  confine  his  suspicions,  like  his  pangs,  to  his  own 
bosom,  except  assured  they  were  well  founded.  A little  time,  he 
supposed,  would  determine  the  opinion  he  should  form  of 
Amanda.  If  he  found  she  encouraged  Belgrave,  he  resolved  to 
leave  her  without  any  explanation;  if,  on  the  contrary,  he  saw 
that  she  avoided  him,  he  meant  to  mention  the  circumstance  of 
the  picture  to  her,  yet  so  as  not  to  hurt  her  feelings,  and  be  regu- 
lated by  her  answer  relative  to  his  future  conduct.  He  returned 
at  last  to  the  box,  and  procured  a seat  behind  her.  He  had  not  oc- 
cupied it  long  ere  Colonel  Belgrave  (who,  from  a retired  part  of 
the  house  where  he  sat  with  some  female  friends,  had  observed 
Amanda)  entered  the  next  box  and  made  his  way  to  the  pillar 
against  which  she  leaned.  He  endeavored  to  catch  her  eyes,  but 
the  noise  he  made  on  entering  put  her  on  her  guard,  and  she  in- 
stantly averted  her  face.  Her  embarrassment  was  visible  to  her 
party,  and  they  all.  Lord  Mortimer  excepted,  enjoyed  it.  Scarcely 
could  he  refrain  from  chastising  the  audacity  of  Belgrave’s  looks, 
who  continued  to  gaze  on  Amanda,  though  he  could  not  see  her 
face.  Nothing  but  the  discovery  which  such  a step  would  pro- 
duce could  have  prevented  his  lordship,  in  his  irritable  state  of 
mind,  from  chastising  what  he  deemed  the  height  of  insolence. 

At  last  the  hour  came  for  relieving  Amanda  from  a situation 
extremely  painful  to  her.  As  Lord  Mortimer  sat  next  the  mar- 
chioness, he  was  compelled  to  offer  her  his  hand.  Freelove  led 
Lady  Euphrasia ; Lady  Greystook  and  Miss  Malcolm  followed  her, 
and  Amanda  was  the  last  who  quitted  the  box.  A crowd  in  the 
lobby  impeded  their  progress.  Amanda  was  close  behind  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


229 


marchioness,  when  Belgrave  forced  his  way  to  her,  and  attempted 
to  take  her  hand  at  the  very  moment  Lord  Mortimer  turned  to 
look  at  her,  who  heard  him  say,  ‘ Dear,  though  unkind,  Amanda^ 
why  this  cruel  change  in  your  conduct?’ 

The  eyes  of  Mortimer  flashed  fire.  ‘ Miss  Fitzalan,’  said  he,  in 
a voice  trembling  through  passion,  * if  you  will  accept  my  arm,  I 
will  make  way  for  you,  or  at  least  secure  you  from  impertinence.’ 
Amanda,  though  trembling  and  confounded  by  his  looks,  hesi- 
tated not  to  accept  his  offer.  Belgrave  knew  his  words  alluded  to 
him.  At  present,  however,  he  resolved  not  to  resent  them,  con- 
vinced that  if  he  did  his  views  on  Amanda  would  be  defeated. 
From  that  moment  her  beauty  was  not  more  powerful  in  stimu- 
lating his  designs  than  his  desire  of  revenge  on  Lord  Mortimer, 
He  saw  he  was  fondly  attached  to  Amanda,  and  he  believed  his 
proud  heart  would  feel  no  event  so  afflictive  as  that  which  should 
deprive  him  of  her. 

Lord  Mortimer  handed  Amanda  in  silence  to  the  carriage;  he 
was  pressed  to  return  to  supper,  but  refused.  The  ladies  found  the 
marquis  and  Lord  Cherbury  together.  Amanda  retired  to  her 
chamber  immediately  after  supper;  the  presence  of  Belgrave  had 
increased  the  dejection  which  she  hoped  the  amusements  of  the 
theater  would  have  dissipated;  she  now  indeed  longed  for  the 
period  when  she  should  be  entitled  to  the  protection  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer ; when  she  should  no  longer  dread  the  audacity  or  stratagems 
of  Belgrave.  Lord  Cherbury,  on  her  retiring,  expressed  his  re* 
gret  at  her  coldness  to  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  by  which  she  had  lost 
a most  honorable  and  advantageous  attachment. 

This  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be  neglected  by  the  marchioness 
for  commencing  her  operations  against  Fitzalan.  A glance  to 
Lady  Greystock  was  the  signal  to  begin. 

‘To  those,’  said  Lady  Greystock,  ‘who  are  ignorant  of  Miss 
Fitzalan 's  real  motives  for  refusing  Sir  Charles,  it  must  appear,  no 
doubt,  extraordinary,  but  ambitious  people  are  not  easily  satisfied 
indeed,  I cannot  blame  her  so  much  for  entertaining  aspiring  no- 
tions as  those  who  instilled  them  into  her  mindc’ 

Lord  Cherbury  stared,  and  requested  an  explanation  of  her 
words. 

‘ Why,  I declare,  my  lord,’  cried  she,  ‘ I do  not  know  but  that 
it  will  be  more  friendly  to  explain  than  conceal  my  meaning. 
When  once  informed  of  the  young  lady’s  views,  your  lordship 
may  be  able  to  convince  her  of  that  fallacy,  and  prevail  on  her  not 
to  lose  another  opportunity  of  settling  herself  in  consequence  of 
them;  in  short,  my  lord.  Miss  Fitzalan,  prompted  by  her  father,, 
has  cast  her  eyes  on  Lord  Mortimer.  Presuming  on  your  friend- 
ship, he  thought  a union  between  them  might  easily  be  accont* 
pllshed.  I do  not  believe  Lord  Mortimer  at  first  gave  any  encour* 


S30 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


agement  to  their  designs;  but  when  the  girl  was  continually 
thrown  in  his  way,  it  was  impossible  not  to  notice  her  at  last. 
I really  expressed  a thorough  disapprobation  to  her  coming  to  Lon- 
don, knowing  their  motives  for  desiring  the  excursion,  but  her 
father  never  ceased  persecuting  me  till  I consented  to  take  her 
milder  my  protection.’  ‘Upon my  word,’  cried  the  marquis,  who 
“was  not  of  the  ladies’  privy  council,  though  if  he  had  it  is  prob- 
able he  would  not  have  objected  to  their  schemes,  ‘ Captain  Fitz- 
alan  must  have  had  some  such  motive  as  this  Lady  Greystock  has 
mentioned  for  sending  his  daughter  to  London,  or  else  he  would 
not  have  been  so  ridiculous  as  to  put  himself  at  the  expense  of  fit- 
ting her  out  for  company  she  has  no  right  to  enter.’  ‘ I never 
thought,’  exclaimed  Lord  Cherbury,  whose  mind  was  irritated  to 
the  most  violent  degree  of  resentment  against  his  injured  friend, 
‘ that  Captain  Fitzalan  could  have  acted  with  such  duplicity.  He 
knew  the  views'!  entertained  for  my  son,  and  there  is  a mean 
treachery  in  his  attempting  to  counteract  them.’  ‘ Nay,  my  lord,' 
said  Lady  Greystock,  ‘ you  are  a father  yourself,  and  must  make 
allowances  for  the  anxiety  of  a parent  to  establish  a child.’  ‘ No, 
madam,’  he  replied;  ‘I  can  make  no  allowance  fora  deviation 
from  integrity,  or  for  a sacrifice  of  honor  and  gratitude  at  the 
shrine  of  interest.  The  subject  has  discomposed  me,  and  I must 
beg  to  be  excused  for  abruptly  retiring;  nothing,  indeed,  I believe, 
can  wound  one  so  severely  as  deceit,  where  one  reposed  implicit 
confidence.’ 

The  ladies  were  enraptured  at  the  success  of  their  scheme.  The 
passion  of  Lord  Cherburj^  could  scarcely  be  smothered  in  their 
presence.  On  the  head  of  Fitzalan  they  knew  it  would  burst 
with  full  violence.  They  did  not  mention  Belgrave  ; relative  to 
him  they  resolved  to  affect  profound  ignorance. 

Th  e passions  of  Lord  Cherbury  were  impetuous.  He  had,  as  I 
have  already  hinted,  secret  motives  for  desiring  a connection  be- 
tween his  family  and  the  marquis’s  ; and  the  idea  of  that  desire 
being  defeated  drove  him  almost  to  distraction.  He  knew  his 
Bon’s  passions,  though  not  so  easily  irritated  as  his  own  were, 
v/hen  once  irritated,  equally  violent.  To  remonstrate  with  him 
concerning  Miss  Fitzalan,  he  believed,  would  be  unavailing  ;-he 
therefore  resolved,  if  possible,  to  have  her  removed  out  of  his  way 
ere  he  apprised  him  of  the  discovery  he  had  made  of  his  attach- 
ment. He  entertained  not  a doubt  of  Lady  Greystock’s  veracity; 
from  his  general  knowledge  of  mankind,  he  believed  self  the  pre- 
dominant consideration  in  every  breast.  His  feelings  were  too 
violent  not  to  seek  an  immediate  vent,  and  ere  he  went  to  bed,  he 
wrote  a bitter  and  reproachful  letter  to  Fitzalan,  which  concluded 
with  an  entreaty,  or  rather  a command,  to  send  without  delay  fof 
his  daughter.  A dreadful  stroke  this  for  poor  Fitzalan. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  A.BBEY^  23? 

After  all  his  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care. 

And  all  his  griefs, 

he  hoped  he  had  at  last  found  a spot  where  his  latter  days  might 
close  in  tranquillity. 

The  innocent  Amanda  was  received  the  next  morning  with 
smiles  by  those  who  were  preparing  a plot  for  her  destruction. 

While  at  breakfast,  a servant  informed  Lady  Greystock  a 
young  woman  wanted  to  speak  to  her.  ‘ Who  is  she  ? ’ asked  her 
ladysliip  ; ‘ did  she  not  send  up  her  name  ? ’ ‘ No,  my  lady  ; but 

she  said  she  had  particular  business  with  your  ladyship.’ 

The  marchioness  directed  she  might  be  shown  up  ; and  a girl 
about  seventeen  was  accordingly  ushered  into  the  room.  Her 
figure  was  delicate,  and  her  face  interesting  not  only  from  its  in- 
nocence, but  the  strong  expression  of  melancholy  diffused  over  it. 
She  appeai*:5d,  trembling  with  confusion  and  timidity,  and  the  pov- 
erty of  her  apparel  implied  the  source  of  her  dejection. 

‘ So, child,’  said  Lady  Greystock,  after  surveying  her  from  head 
to  foot,  ‘I  am  told  you  have  business  with  me,’  ‘Yes,  madam,’ 
replied  she,  in  an  accent  so  low  as  scarcely  to  be  heard  ; ‘ my 
father,  Captain  Eushbrook,  desired  me  to  deliver  a letter  to  your 
ladyship.’ 

She  presented  it,  and  endeavored  to  screen  herself  from  the 
scrutinizing  and  contemptuous  glances  of  Lady  Euphrasia  by  pull- 
ing her  hat  over  her  face. 

‘ I wonder,  child,’  said  Lady  Greystock,  as  she  opened  the  letter, 
‘ what  your  father  can  write  to  me  about.  I don’t  suppose  it  can 
be  about  the  affair  he  mentioned  the  other  day.  Why,  really,’ 
continued  she,  after  she  had  perused  it,  ‘ I believe  he  takes  me 
for  a fool,  I am  astonished,  after  his  insolent  conduct,  how  he 
can  possibly  have  the  assurance  to  make  application  to  me  for  re- 
lief. No,  no,  child,  he  neglected  the  opportunity  he  had  of  secur- 
ing me  as  his  friend.  ’T  would  really  be  a sin  to  give  him  the  power 
of  bringing  up  his  family  in  idleness.  No,  no,  child,  he  must  learn 
you  and  the  other  little  dainty  misses  he  has,  to  do  something  for 
yourselves.’ 

The  poor  girl  blushed  ; a tear  trembled  in  her  eye  ; she  tried 
to  suppress  it,  but  it  forced  its  way,  and  dropped  into  her  bosom. 
Amanda,  inexpressibly  shocked,  could  support  the  scene  no  longer. 
She  retired  precipitately,  and  descended  to  the  parlor.  Sym- 
pathy, as  well  as  compassion,  made  her  feel  for  this  daughter  of 
affliction,  for  she  herself  knew  what  it  was  to  feel  the  ‘ insolence 
of  prosperity,  the  proud  man’s  scorn,  and  all  those  ills  which 
patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes.’ 

In  a few  minutes  Miss  Eushbrook  quitted  the  drawing-room, 
and  stopped  in  the  hall  to  wipe  away  her  tears.  Amanda  had  been 
watching  for  her,  and  now  appeared.  She  started,  and  was 


232 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Hurrying  away,  when  Amanda  caught  her  hand,  and  leading  hei 
softly  into  the  parlor,  endeavored,  with  angelic  sweetness,  to  calm 
her  emotion.  Surprised  at  this  unexpected  attention,  and  over- 
come by  her  feelings,  the  poor  girl  sunk  on  her  chair,  and  drop- 
ping her  head  on  Amanda’s  bosom,  wet  it  with  a shower  of  tears, 
as  she  exclaimed  : ‘Alas  ! my  unfortunate  parents,  how  can  I re- 
turn to  behold  your  misery  ? The  grave  is  the  only  refuge  for 
you  and  your  wretched  children  ! ’ ‘You  must  not  encourage 
such  desponding  thoughts,’  said  Amanda.  ‘Providence,  all- 
bounteous  and  all-powerful,  is  able  in  a short  time  to  change  the 
gloomiest  scene  into  one  of  brightness.  Tell  me,  ’ she  continued, 
after  a pause,  ‘where  do  you  reside  ? ’ ‘At  Kensington.’  ‘ Ken- 
sington ! ’ repeated  Amanda.  ‘ Surely,  in  your  present  situation, 
you  are  unable  to  take  such  a walk.’ 

‘I  must  attempt  it, however, ’replied Miss  Rushbrook. 

Amanda  walked  from  her  to  the  window,  revolving  a scheme 
which  had  just  darted  into  her  mind.  ‘ If  you  know  any  house,^ 
said  she,  ‘ where  you  could  stay  for  a short  time,  I would  call  on 
you  in  a carriage,  and  leave  you  at  home.’ 

This  offer  was  truly  pleasing  to  the  poor,  weak,  trembling  girl, 
but  she  modestly  declined  it,  from  the  fear  of  giving  trouble. 
Amanda  besought  her  not  to  waste  time  in  such  unnecessary 
scruples,  but  to  give  her  the  desired  information.  She  accordingly 
informed  her  there  was  a haberdasher’s  in  Bond  Street,  mention- 
ing the  name,  where  she  could  stay  till  called  for. 

This  point  settled,  Amanda,  fearful  of  being  surprised,  con- 
ducted her  softly  to  the  hall-door,  and  immediately  returned  to 
the  drawing-room,  where  she  found  Lady  Euphrasia  just  begin- 
ning Rushbrook’s  letter,  for  her  mother’s  amusement.  Its  style 
evidently  denoted  the  painful  conflicts  there  were  between  pride 
and  distress,  ere  the  former  could  be  sufficiently  subdued  to  allow 
an  application  for  relief  to  the  person  who  occasioned  the  latter. 
The  sight  of  a tender  and  beloved  wife,  languishing  in  the  arms 
of  sickness  and  surrounded  by  a family  under  the  pressure  of 
the  severest  want,  had  forced  him  to  a step  which,  on  his  own  ac- 
count, no  necessity  could  have  compelled  him  to  take.  He  and 
liis  family,  he  said,  had  drank  of  the  cup  of  misery  to  the  very 
dregs.  He  waived  the  claims  of  justice  ; he  only  asserted  those 
of  humanity,  in  his  present  application  to  her  ladyship ; and  these, 
he  flattered  himself,  she  would  allow.  He  had  sent  a young  peti- 
tioner in  his  behalf,  whose  tearful  eye,  whose  faded  cheek,  were  sad 
evidences  of  the  misery  he  described. 

The  marchioness  declared  she  was  astonished  at  his  insolence 
in  making  such  an  application,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  protested  the 
letter  was  the  most  ridiculous  stuff  she  had  ever  read. 

Amanda,  in  this,  as  well  as  in  many  other  instances,  differed 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


233 


from  her  ladyship  ; but  her  opinion,  like  a little  project  she  had 
in  view  about  the  Rushbrooks,  was  carefully  concealed. 

Out  of  the  allowance  her  father  made  her  for  clothes  and  other 
expenses  about  ten  guineas  remained,  which  she  had  intended 
laying  out  in  the  purchase  of  some  ornaments  for  her  appearance 
at  a ball,  to  be  given  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  week  by  the 

Duchess  of  B , and,  for  which,  at  the  time  of  invitation, 

Lord  Mortimer  had  engaged  her  for  his  partner.  To  give  up  go- 
ing to  this  ball,  to  consecrate  to  charity  the  money  devoted  to 
vanity,  was  her  project  ; and  most  fortunate  did  she  deem  the  ap- 
plication of  Rushbrook,  ere  her  purchase  was  made,  and  she  con- 
sequently prevented  from  giving  her  mite.  Her  soul  revolted 
from  the  inhumanity  of  the  marchioness,  her  daughter,  and  Lady 
Greystock.  Exempt  from  the  calamities  of  want  themselves, 
they  forgot  the  pity  due  to  those  calamities  in  others.  If  this 
coldness,  this  obduracy,  she  cried  within  herself,  is  the  effect  of 
prosperity  ; if  thus  it  closes  the  avenues  of  benevolence  and  com- 
passion, oh ! never  may  the  dangerous  visitor  approach  me — for 
ill  should  I think  the  glow  of  compassion  and  sensibility  ex- 
changed for  all  its  gaudy  pleasures. 

The  ladies  had  mentioned  their  intention  of  going  to  an  auction, 
where,  to  use  Lady  Euphrasia’s  phrase,  ‘ they  expected  to  see  all 
the  world.’  Amanda  excused  herself  from  being  of  the  party, 
saying,  ‘ she  wanted  to  make  some  purchases  in  the  city.’  Her 
excuse  was  readily  admitted,  and  when  they  retired  to  their  re- 
spective toilets,  she  sent  for  a coach,  and  being  prepared  against 
its  coming,  immediately  stepped  into  it,  and  was  driven  to  Bond 
Street,  where  she  found  Miss  Rushbrook,  with  trembling  anxiety, 
waiting  her  arrival. 

On  their  way  to  Kensington,  the  tenderness  of  Amanda  at  once 
conciliated  the  affection  and  gained  the  entire  confidence  of  her 
companion.  She  related  the  little  history  of  her  parents’  sorrows. 
Her  father,  on  returning  from  America,  with  his  wife  and  six 
children,  had  been  advised  by  Mr.  Heathfield,  the  friend  who 
had  effected  a reconciliation  between  him  and  his  uncle,  to  com- 
mence a suit  against  Lady  Greystock,  on  the  presumption  that  the 
will  by  which  she  enjoyed  Sir  Geoffry’s  fortune  was  illegally 
executed.  He  offered  him  his  purse  to  carry  on  the  suit,  and 
his  house  for  an  habitation.  Rushbrook  gratefully  and  gladly 
accepted  both  offers,  and  having  disposed  of  his  commission,  to 
discharge  some  present  demands  against  him,  he  and  his  family 
took  up  their  residence  under  Mr.  Heathfield’ s hospitable  roof. 
In  the  midst  of  the  felicity  enjoyed  beneath  it,  in  the  midst  of  the 
Dopes  their  own  sanguine  tempers  and  the  fiattering  suggestions 
of  the  lawyers  had  excited,  a violent  fever  carried  off  their  be- 
nevolent friend,  ere  a will  was  executed,  in  which  he  had  pronof 


234 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ised  largely  to  consider  Bush  brook.  His  heir,  narrow  and  illib- 
eral, had  long  feared  that  his  interest  would  be  hurt  by  the 
affection  he  entertained  for  Rushbrook ; and,  as  if  in  revenge  for 
the  pain  this  fear  had  given,  the  moment  he  had  the  power  he 
showed  his  malignant  disposition,  sold  all  the  furniture  of  the 
house  at  Kensington,  and  as  a great  favor  told  Rushbrook  he 
might  continue  in  it  till  the  expiration  of  the  half  year,  when  it 
was  to  be  given  up  to  the  landlord.  The  lawyers,  understanding 
the  state  of  his  finances,  soon  informed  him  he  could  no  longer 
expect  their  assistance.  Thus,  almost  in  one  moment,  did  all  his 
pleasing  prospects  vanish,  and, 

Like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a vision, 

Left  not  a rack  behind. 

As  a duty  he  owed  his  family,  he  tried  whether  Lady  Grey- 
stock  would  make  a compromise  between  justice  and  avarice,  and 
afiPord  him  some  means  of  support.  Her  insolence  and  inhuman- 
ity shocked  him  to  the  soul;  and  as  he  left  her  presence,  he  re- 
solved never  to  enter  it  again,  or  to  apply  to  her.  This  last  reso- 
lution, however,  only  continued  till  the  distresses  of  the  family 
grew  so  great  as  to  threaten  their  existence,  particularly  that  of 
his  wife,  who,  overpowered  by  grief,  had  sunk  into  a languish- 
ing illness,  which  every  day  increased  for  want  of  proper  assist- 
ance. 

In  hopes  of  procuring  her  some,  he  was  tempted  again  to  apply 
to  Lady  Greystock.  The  youth  and  innocence  of  his  daughter 
would,  he  thought,  if  anything  could  do  it,  soften  her  flinty  heart. 
Besides,  he  believed  that  pleasure,  at  finding  his  pretensions  to 
the  fortune  entirely  withdrawn,  would  influence  her  to  adminis- 
ter from  it  to  his  wants. 

‘ We  have,’  said  Miss  Rushbrook,  as  she  concluded  her  simple 
narration,  ‘ tried,  and  been  disappointed  in  our  last  resource. 
What  will  become  of  us,  I know  not ; we  have  long  been  strangers 
to  the  comforts,  but  even  the  necessaries  of  life  we  cannot  now 
procure.’  ‘Comfort,’  cried  Amanda,  ‘often  arrives  when 
least  expected.  To  despair  is  to  doubt  the  goodness  of  a Being 
who  has  promised  to  protect  all  his  creatures.’ 

The  carriage  had  now  reached  Kensington,  and  within  a few 
yards  of  Rushbrook ’s  habitation.  Amanda  stopped  it.  She  took 
Miss  Rushbrook’s  hand,  and  as  he  slipped  a ten-pound  note  into 
it,  exclaimed:  ‘I  trust  the  period  is  not  far  distant,  when  the 
friendship  we  have  conceived  for  each  other  may  be  cultivated 
under  more  fortunate  auspices.’ 

Miss  Rushbrook  opened  the  folded  paper.  She  started,  and 
‘ the  hectic  of  a moment  flushed  her  cheek.’  ‘ Oh  ! madam  ! ‘ she 
cried,  ‘your  goodness ’ Tears  impeded  her  further  utterancec 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY^ 


235 


‘ Do  not  distress  me,’  said  Amanda,  again  taking  her  hand,  ‘ by 
mentioning  such  a trifle  ; was  my  ability  equal  to  my  inclination^ 
I should  blush  to  offer  it  to  your  acceptance.  As  it  is,  consider 
it  as  but  the  foretaste  of  the  bounty  which  Heaven  has,  I doubt 
not,  in  store  for  you.  ’ 

She  then  desired  the  door  to  be  opened,  and  told  her  com- 
panion she  would  no  longer  detain  her.  Miss  Rushbrook  affection- 
ately kissed  her  hand,  and  exclaimed,  ‘ You  look  like  an  angel, 
and  your  goodness  is  correspondent  to  your  looks.  I will  not, 
madam,  refuse  your  bounty.  I accept  it  with  gratitude,  for 
those  dearer  to  me  than  myself.  But  ah  ! may  I not  indulge  a 
hope  of  seeing  you  again.  You  are  so  kind,  so  gentle,  madam, 
that  every  care  is  lulled  into  forgetfulness  while  conversing  with 
you.’ 

‘I  shall  certainly  see  you  again  as  soon  as  possible,’  replied 
Amanda. 

Miss  Rushbrook  then  quitted  the  carriage,  which  Amanda 
ordered  back  to  town,  and  bid  the  coachman  drive  as  fast  as 
possible.  They  had  not  proceeded  far  when  the  traces  suddenly 
gave  way,  and  the  man  was  obliged  to  dismount,  and  procure 
assistance  from  a public-house  on  the  road,  in  repairing  them.  This 
occasioned  a delay,  which  greatly  distressed  Amanda.  She 
wished  to  get  home  before  the  ladies,  lest,  if  this  was  not  the 
case,  her  long  absence  should  make  Lady  Greystock,  who  was 
remarkably  inquisitive,  inquire  the  reason  of  it  ; and  to  tell  her 
she  had  a strong  objection,  convinced,  as  she  was,  that  her  lady- 
ship’s knowing  she  relieved  objects  so  extremely  disagreeable  to 
her,  would  occasion  a quarrel  between  them,  which  would  either 
render  a longer  residence  together  impossible  or  highly  disagree- 
able. And  to  leave  London  at  the  present  crisis,  when  every- 
thing relative  to  Lord  Mortimer  was  drawing  to  a conclusion, 
was  not  to  be  thought  of  without  the  greatest  pain. 

At  length  the  coachman  remounted  his  box,  and  the  velocity 
with  which  he  drove  flattered  her  with  the  hope  of  reaching 
iiOme  as  soon  as  she  wished.  Tranquillized  by  this  hope,  she 
again  indulged  her  imagination  with  the  ideas  of  the  comfort  hei 
little  bounty  had  probably  given  Rushbrook  and  his  dejected  fam- 
ily. So  sweet  to  her  soul  was  the  secret  approbation  which 
crowned  her  charity ; so  preferable  to  any  pleasure  she  could  have 
experienced  at  a ball,  that  even  the  disappointment  she  believed 
Lord  Mortimer  would  feel  from  her  declining  it,  was  overlooked 
in  the  satisfaction  she  felt  from  the  action  she  had  performed. 
She  was  convinced  he  would  inquire  her  reason  for  not  going, 
which  she  determined  at  present  to  conceal.  It  would  appear  like 
ostentation,  she  thought,  to  say  that  the  money  requisite  for  her 
appearance  at  the  ball  was  expended  in  charity,  and  perhaps  ex< 


236 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


Cite  his  generosity  in  a manner  which  delicacy  at  present  forbade 
her  allowing. 

She  asked  the  footman  who  handed  her  from  the  carriage 
whether  the  ladies  were  returned  ; and  on  being  answered  in  the 
affirmative,  inquired  the  hour,  and  learned  it  was  just  dinner 
time.  Flurried  by  this  intelligence  she  hastened  to  her  chamber, 
followed  by  the  maid  appointed  to  attend  her,  who  said  Lady 
Grey  stock  had  inquired  for  her  as  soon  as  she  came  home. 
Amanda  dressed  herself  with  unusual  expedition,  and  repaired  to 
the  drawing  room,  where,  in  addition  to  the  family  party,  she 
found  Lord  Mortimer,  Freelove,  Miss  Malcolm,  and  some  other 
ladies  and  gentlemen  assembled. 

‘ Bless  me,  child,’  said  Lady  Greystock  the  moment  she  entered 
the  room,  ‘ where  have  you  been  the  whole  day?  ’ ‘ I declare, 

Miss  Fitzalan,’  exclaimed  Lady  Euphrasia,  ‘I  believe  you  stole  a 
march  somewhere  upon  us  this  morning.  ’ ‘ W ell,  ’ cried  Miss  Mal- 
colm, laughing,  ‘ your  ladyship  must  know  that  people  generally 
have  some  important  reason  for  stolen  marches  which  they  do  not 
choose  to  divulge.  ’ 

Amanda  treated  this  malicious  insinuation  with  the  silent  con- 
tempt it  merited  ; and  on  Lady  Greystock’s  again  asking  her 
where  she  had  been,  said  in  a low,  hesitating  voice  ‘ In  the  city.’ 

‘ In  the  city!  ’ repeated  Lord  Mortimer. 

This  sudden  exclamation  startled  her.  She  looked  at  him,  and 
perceived  him  regarding  her  with  the  most  scrutinizing  earnest- 
ness. She  blushed  deeply,  as  if  detected  in  a falsehood,  and  im- 
mediately bent  her  eyes  to  the  ground. 

The  conversation  now  changed,  but  it  was*some  time  ere  Aman- 
da’s confusion  subsided. 

Lord  Mortimer,  indeed,  had  a reason  for  his  exclamation  she 
little  thought  of.  He  had  met  the  marchioness  and  her  compan- 
ions, by  appointment,  at  the  auction,  but  soon  grew  weary  of  his 
situation,  which  the  presence  of  Amanda  could  alone  have  ren- 
dered tolerable.  He  pleaded  business  as  an  excuse  for  withdraw- 
ing, and  hurrying  home,  ordered  his  phaeton,  and  proceeded  to- 
ward Kensington.  As  he  passed  the  coach  in  which  Amanda  sat^ 
at  the  time  the  traces  were  mending,  he  carelessly  looked  into  it, 
and  directly  recognized  her.  Lady  Euphrasia  had  informed  him 
she  excused  herself  from  their  party  on  account  of  some  business 
in  the  city.  He  never  heard  of  her  having  any  acquaintance  in 
or  about  Kensington,  and  was  at  once  alarmed  and  surprised  by 
discovering  her.  He  drove  to  some  distance  from  the  carriage, 
and  as  soon  as  it  began  to  move,  pursued  it  with  equal  velocity 
till  it  reached  town,  and  then  giving  his  phaeton  in  charge  to  the 
servant,  followed  it  on  foot,  till  he  saw  Amanda  alight  from  it  at 
the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s.  Amanda  had  escaped  seeing  his  lordship 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


237 


by  a profound  meditation  in  which  she  was  engaged  at  the  mo* 
ment,  as  she  pensively  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  coach.  Lord 
Mortimer  walked  back  with  increased  disorder  to  meet  his  phaeton. 
As  he  approached  it  he  saw  Colonel  Belgrave  by  it,  on  horseback, 
admiring  the  horses,  which  were  remarkably  fine,  and  asking  to 
whom  they  belonged.  His  acquaintance  with  the  colonel  had 
hitherto  never  exceeded  more  than  a passing  bow.  Now,  prompted 
by  an  irresistible  impulse,  he  saluted  him  familiarly  ; inquired 
* whether  he  had  had  a pleasant  ride  that  morning,  and  how  far 
he  had  been.’  ‘ No  farther  than  Kensington,’  replied  the  colonel. 

This  answer  was  confirmation  strong  to  all  the  fears  of  Lord 
Mortimer.  He  turned  pale,  dropped  the  reins  which  he  had  taken, 
with  an  intention  of  remounting,  and,  without  even  noticing  the 
colonel,  fiew  from  the  place,  and  arrived  at  home  almost  in  a state 
of  distraction.  He  was  engaged  to  dine  at  the  Marquis’s,  but  in 
the  first  violence  of  his  feelings  resolved  on  sending  an  apology. 
Ere  the  servant,  however,  summoned  for  that  purpose  had  entered 
his  apartment,  he  changed  his  resolution.  ‘I  will  go,’  said  he  ; 
^ though  appearances  are  against  her,  she  may,  perhaps’  (and  he 
tried  to  derive  some  comfort  from  the  idea),  ‘ be  able  to  account  for 
her  being  at  Kensington.’ 

Tortured  by  conflicting  passions,  alternately  hoping  and  doubt- 
ing, he  arrived  at  Portman  Square. 

Lady  Greystock  and  Lady  Euphrasia  dwelt  with  wonder  on  the 
length  of  Amanda’s  morning  excursion.  When  she  entered  the 
room,  he  thought  she  appeared  embarrassed  ; and  that,  on  Lady 
Greystock’s  addressing  her,  this  embarrassment  increased.  But 
when  she  said  she  had  been  in  the  city,  her  duplicity,  as  he  termed 
it,  appeared  so  monstrous  to  him,  that  he  could  not  forbear  an  in- 
voluntary repetition  of  her  words.  So  great,  indeed,  was  the  in- 
dignation it  excited  in  his  breast,  that  he  could  scarcely  forbear 
reproaching  her  as  the  destroyer  of  his  and  her  own  felicity.  Her 
blush  appeared  to  him,  not  the  ingenuous  coloring  of  innocence, 
but  the  glow  of  shame  and  guilt.  It  was  evident  to  him  that  she 
had  seen  Belgrave  that  morning  ; that  he  was  the  occasion  of  all 
the  mystery  which  had  appeared  in  her  conduct,  and  that  it  was 
the  knowledge  of  the  improper  influence  he  had  over  her  heart 
which  made  Sir  Charles  Bingley  so  suddenly  resign  her. 

‘ Gracious  Heaven  ! ’ said  he  to  himself,  ‘ who,  that  looked 
upon  Amanda,  could  ever  suppose  duplicity  liarbored  in  her 
breast  ? Yet  that  too  surely  it  is,  I have  every  reason  to  suppose. 
Yet  a little  longer  I will  bear  a torturing  state  of  suspense,  nor 
reveal  my  doubts  till  thoroughly  convinced  they  are  well 
founded. ' 

He  sat  opposite  to  her  at  dinner,  and  his  eyes  were  directed 
towards  her  with  that  tender  sadness  which  we  feel  on  viewing  a 


238 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


beloved  object  we  know  ourselves  on  the  point  of  losing  for 
ever. 

His  ifielancholy  was  quickly  perceived  by  the  penetrating  rnai^ 
chioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia.  They  saw,  with  delight,  tiiat  the 
poison  of  suspicion,  infused  into  his  mind,  was  already  beginning 
to  operate.  They  anticipated  the  success  of  all  their  schemes. 
Their  spirits  grew  uncommonly  elevated  ; and  Lady  Euphrasia 
determined,  whenever  she  had  the  power,  to  revenge,  on  the 
susceptible  nature  of  Mortimer,  all  the  uneasiness  he  had  made 
her  suffer,  and  to  add,  as  far  as  malice  could  add  to  it,  to  the 
misery  about  to  be  the  lot  of  Amanda. 

The  dejection  of  Lord  Mortimer  was  also  observed  by  Amanda. 
It  excited  her  fears  and  afiPected  her  sensibility.  She  dreaded 
that  his  aunt  had  refused  complying  with  his  request  relative  to 
her  interference  with  his  father,  or  that  the  earl  had  been  urging 
him  to  an  immediate  union  with  Lady  Euphrasia.  Perhaps  he 
now  wavered  between  love  and  duty.  The  thought  struck  a cold 
damp  upon  her  heart.  ‘ Yet  no,  ’ cried  she,  ‘ it  cannot  be;  if  inclined 
to  change.  Lord  Mortimer  would  at  once  have  informed  me. 

In  the  evening  there  was  a large  addition  to  the  party  ; but 
Lord  Mortimer  sat  pensively  apart  from  the  company,  Amanda, 
by  chance,  procured  a seat  next  his.  His  paleness  alarmed  her, 
and  she  could  not  forbear  hinting  her  fears  that  he  was  ill. 

‘ I am  ill,  indeed,  ’ sighed  he,  heavily.  He  looked  at  her  as  he 
spoke,  and  beheld  her  regarding  him  with  the  most  exquisite  ten- 
derness. But  the  period  was  past  for  receiving  delight  from  such 
an  appearance  of  affection  : an  affection  which,  he  had  reason  to 
believe,  was  never  more  than  feigned  for  him  ; and,  also,  from  his 
emotions  when  with  her,  that  he  should  never  cease  regretting 
the  deception.  His  passions,  exhausted  by  their  own  violence,  had 
sunk  into  a calm,  and  sadness  was  the  predominant  feeling  of  his 
soul.  Though  he  so  bitterly  lamented,  he  could  not,  at  the  mo- 
ment, have  reproached  her  perfidy.  He  gazed  on  her  with  mourn- 
ful tenderness,  and  to  the  involuntary  expression  of  regret,  which 
dropped  from  her  on  hearing  he  was  ill,  only  replied,  by  saying, 
‘ Ah  I Amanda,  the  man  that  really  excites  your  tenderness  must 
be  happy.’ 

Amanda,  unconscious  that  any  sinister  meaning  lurked  be- 
neath these  words,  considered  them  as  an  acknowledgement  of 
the  happiness  he  himself  experienced  from  being  convinced  of 
her  regard,  and  her  heart  swelled  with  pleasure  at  the  idea. 

Any  further  conversation  between  them  was  interrupted  by 
Miss  Malcolm,  who,  in  a laughing  manner,  seated  herself  bj 
Lwd  Mortimer,  to  him,  as  she  said,  into  good  spirits. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBBT. 


239 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

But  yet  I say, 
af  imputation  and  strong  circumstances. 

Which  lead  directly  to  the  door  of  truth. 

Will  give  you  satisfaction,  you  may  have  it. 

Shakespexub. 

Prom  that  evening,  to  the  day  destined  for  the  ball,  nothing 
material  happened.  On  the  morning  of  that  day,  as  Amanda  was 
sitting  in  the  drawing-room  with  the  ladies,  Lord  Mortimer  en- 
tered. Lady  Euphrasia  could  talk  of  nothing  else  but  the  ap- 
proaching entertainment,  which,  she  said, was  expected  to  be  the 
most  brilliant  thing  that  had  been  given  that  winter. 

‘ I hope  your  ladyship,’  said  Amanda,  who  had  not  yet  declared 
her  intention  of  staying  at  home,  ‘ will  be  able  to-morrow  to  give 
me  a good  description  of  it.’  ‘Why,  I suppose,’  cried  Lady 
Euphrasia,  ‘ you  do  not  intend  going  without  being  able  to  see 
and  hear  yourself?  ’ ‘ Certainly,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘ I should  not, 

but  I do  not  intend  going.’  ‘ Not  going  to  the  ball  to-night?  ’ ex- 
claimed Lady  Euphrasia.  ‘ Bless  me,  child,  ’ said  Lady  Greystock, 
‘ what  whim  has  entered  your  head  to  prevent  your  going  ? ’ ‘ Dear 
Lady  Greystock,’  said  Lady  Euphrasia,  in  a tone  of  unusual  good- 
humor,  internally  delighted  at  Amanda’s  resolution,  ‘ don’t  tease 
Miss  Fitzalan  with  questions.’  ‘ And  you  really  do  not  go?  ’ ex- 
claimed Lord  Mortimer,  in  an  accent  expressive  of  surprise  and 
disappointment.  ‘I  really  do  not,  my  lord.’  ‘I  declare,’ said 
the  marchioness,  even  more  delighted  than  her  daughter  at 
Amanda’s  resolution,  as  it  favored  a scheme  she  had  long  been 
projecting,  ‘ I wish  Euphrasia  was  as  indifferent  about  amusement 
as  Miss  Fitzalan  : here  she  has  been  complaining  of  indisposition 
the  whole  morning,  yet  I cannot  prevail  on  her  to  give  up  the 
ball.’ 

Lady  Euphrasia,  who  never  felt  in  better  health  and  spirits, 
would  have  contradicted  the  marchioness,  had  not  an  expressive 
glance  assured  her  there  was  an  important  motive  for  this  asser- 
tion. 

‘May  we  not  hope.  Miss  Fitzalan,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘ that  a 
resolution  so  suddenly  adopted  as  yours  may  be  as  suddenly 
changed?  ’ ‘ No,  indeed,  my  lord,  nor  is  it  so  suddenly  formed  as 
you  seem  to  suppose.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  shuddered  as  he  endeavored  to  account  for  it  in 
his  own  mind  ; his  agony  became  almost  insupportable  ; he  arose 
and  walked  to  the  window  where  she  sat. 

‘Amanda,’  said  he,  in  a low  voice,  ‘ I fear  you  forget  your  en- 
gagement  to  me.’ 

Amanda,  supposing  this  alluded  to  her  engagement  for  the  ball^ 


240 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


replied,  * she  had  not  forgotten  it.’  ‘ For  your  inability  or  di® 
inclination  to  fulfil  it,  then,’ said  he,  ‘will  you  not  account?’ 
^Most  willingly,  my  lord.’  ‘ When  ? ’ asked  Lord  Mortimer,  im- 
patiently, for  unable  longer  to  support  his  torturing  suspense,  he 
determined,  contrary  to  his  first  intention,  to  come  to  an  immedi- 
ate explanation  relative  to  Belgrave.  ‘ To-morrow,  my  lord,  ’ re- 
plied Amanda,  ‘ since  you  desire  it,  I will  account  for  not  keeping 
my  engagement,  and  I trust,’  a modest  blush  mantling  her  cheeks 
as  she  spoke,  ‘ that  your  lordship  will  not  disapprove  of  my  rea- 
sons for  declining  it.’ 

The  peculiar  earnestness  of  his  words.  Lord  Mortimer  imagined, 
had  conveyed  their  real  meaning  to  Amanda. 

‘Till  to-morrow,  then,’ sighed  he,  heavily,  ‘I  must  bear  dis- 
quietude.’ 

His  regret,  Amanda  supposed,  proceeded  from  disappointment 
at  not  having  her  company  at  the  ball : she  was  flattered  by  it, 
and  pleased  at  the  idea  of  telling  him  her  real  motive  for  not  go- 
ing, certain  it  would  meet  his  approbation,  and  open  another 
source  of  benevolence  to  poor  Rushbrook. 

In  the  evening,  at  Lady  Euphrasia’s  particular  request,  she  at- 
tended at  her  toilet,  and  assisted  in  ornamenting  her  ladyship. 
At  ten  she  saw  the  party  depart,  without  the  smallest  regret  for 
not  accompanying  them  : happy  in  self-approbation,  a delightful 
calm  was  diffused  over  her  mind  ; a treacherous  calm,  indeed, 
which,  lulling  her  senses  into  security,  made  the  approaching 
storm  burst  with  redoubled  violence  on  her  head  ; it  was  such  a 
calm  as  Shakespeare  beautifully  describes  : 

We  often  see  against  some  storm 
A silence  in  the  heavens  ; the  rack  stand  stm. 

The  bold  winds  speechless,  and  the  orb  below 
As  hash  as  death. 

She  continued  in  Lady  Euphrasia’s  dressing-room,  and  toc&  up 
the  beautiful  and  affecting  story  of  Paul  and  Mary,  to  amuse  her- 
self. Her  whole  attention  was  soon  engrossed  by  it ; and,  with 
Paul,  she  was  soon  shedding  a deluge  of  tears  over  the  fate  of  his 
lovely  Mary,  when  a sudden  noise  made  her  hastily  turn  her  head, 
and  with  equal  horror  and  surprise,  she  beheld  Colonel  Belgrave 
coming  forward.  She  started  up,  and  was  springing  to  the  door, 
when,  rushing  between  her  and  it,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and 
forcing  her  back  to  the  sofa,  rudely  stopped  her  mouth. 

‘ Neither  cries  nor  struggles,  Amanda,’  said  he,  ‘ will  be  availing; 
without  the  assistance  of  a friend,  you  may  be  convinced,  I could 
not  have  entered  this  house,  and  the  same  friend  will,  you  may 
depend  on  it,  take  care  that  our  is  not  interrupted.’ 

Amanda  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  treachery;  and  being  eon 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


241 


Vinced,  from  what  he  said,  she  could  not  expect  assistance,  eii 
deavored  to  recover  her  fainting  spirits,  and  exert  all  her  resolu? 
tion. 

‘ Your  scheme,  Colonel  Belgrave,’  said  she,  * is  equally  vile  and 
futile.  Though  treachery  may  have  brought  you  hither,  you  must 
be  convinced  that,  under  the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s  roof,  who,  by  re- 
lationship, as  well  as  hospitality,  is  bound  to  protect  me,  you  dare 
not,  with  impunity,  otter  me  any  insult.  The  marquis  will  be  at 
home  immediately ; if,  therefore,  you  wish  to  preserve  the  sem* 
blance  of  honor,  retire  without  further  delay.’  ‘ Not  to  retire  ^o 
easily,’  exclaimed  Belgrave,  ‘ did  I take  such  pains,  or  watch  so 
anxiously  for  this  interview.  Fear  not  any  insult ; but,  till  I have 
revealed  the  purpose  of  my  soul,  I will  not  be  forced  from  you. 
My  love,  or  rather  adoration,  has  known  no  abatement  by  your 
long  concealment:  and  now  that  chance  has  so  happily  thrown 
you  in  my  way,  I will  not  neglect  using  any  opportunity  it  may 
offer.  ’ ‘ Gracious  Heavens ! ’ said  Amanda,  while  her  eyes  flashed 

with  indignation,  ‘ how  can  you  have  the  effrontery  to  avow  your 
insolent  intentions — intentions  which  long  since  you  must  have 
known  would  ever  prove  abortive?  ’ ‘ And  why,  my  Amanda,^ 

said  he,  again  attempting  to  strain  her  to  his  breast,  while  she 
shrunk  from  his  grasp,  ‘ why  should  they  prove  abortive?  why 
should  you  be  obstinate  in  refusing  wealth,  happiness,  the  sincere, 
the  ardent  affection  of  a man,  who,  in  promoting  your  felicity, 
would  constitute  his  own?  My  life,  my  fortune,  would  be  at  your 
command ; my  eternal  gratitude  would  be  yours  for  any  trifling 
sacrifice  the  Avorld  might  think  you  made  me.  Hesitate  no  longer 
about  raising  yourself  to  affluence,  which,  to  a benevolent  spirit 
like  yours,  must  be  so  peculiarly  pleasing.  Hesitate  not  to  secure 
independence  to  your  father,  promotion  to  your  brother;  and,  be 
assured,  if  the  connection  I formed  in  an  ill-fated  hour,  deceived 
by  a specious  appearance  of  perfection,  should  ever  be  dissolved,, 
my  hand,  like  my  heart,  shall  be  yours.’  ‘ Monster ! ’ exclaimed 
Amanda,  beholding  him  with  horror,  ‘ your  hand,  was  it  at  your 
disposal,  like  your  other  offers,  I should  spurn  with  contempt* 
Cease  to  torment  me,’  she  continued,  ‘ lest,  in  my  own  defense,  I 
call  upon  those  who  have  power,  as  well  as  inclination,  to  chastise 
your  insolence.  Let  this  consideration,  joined  to  the  certainty 
that  your  pursuit  must  ever  prove  unavailing,  influence  your 
future  actions ; for,  be  assured,  you  are  in  every  respect  an  object 
of  abhorrence  to  my  soul.’ 

As  she  spoke,  exerting  all  her  strength,  she  burst  from  him,  and 
attempted  to  gain  the  door.  He  flung  himself  between  her  and  it^ 
his  face  inflamed  with  passion,  and  darting  the  most  maligant 
glances  at  her. 

Terrified  by  his  looks,  Amanda  tried  to  avoid  him ; and  when  he 


^42  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

caught  her  again  in  his  arms,  she  screamed  aloud.  No  one  ap 
ipeared ; her  terror  increased. 

‘ O Belgrave!  * cried  she,  trembling,  ‘ if  you  have  one  prin- 
ciple of  honor,  one  feeling  of  humanity  remaining,  retire.  I will 
pardon  and  conceal  what  is  past,  if  you  comply  with  my  request.* 

‘ I distress  you,  Amanda,’  said  he,  assuming  a softened  accent, 
^ and  it  wounds  me  to  the  soul  to  do  so,  though  you,  cruel  and  in- 
exorable, care  not  what  pain  you  occasion  me.  Hear  me  calmly, 
and  be  assured  I shall  attempt  no  action  which  can  offend  you.* 

He  led  her  again  to  the  sofa,  and  thus  continued : 

‘ Misled  by  false  views,  you  shun  and  detest  the  only  man  who 
has  had  sufficient  sincerity  to  declare  openly  his  intentions ; in- 
experience and  credulity  have  already  made  you  a dupe  to  artifice. 
You  imagined  Sir  Charles  Bingley  was  a fervent  admirer  of  yours, 
%vhen,  be  assured,  in  following  you  he  only  obeyed  the  dictates  of 
•an  egregious  vanity,  which  fiattered  him  wfith  the  hope  of  gaining 
your  regard,  and  being  distinguished  by  it.  Nothing  was  farther 
from  his  thoughts,  as  he  himself  confessed  to  me,  than  seriously 
paying  his  addresses  to  you ; and  had  you  appeared  willing,  at  last, 
to  accept  them,  be  assured  he  would  soon  have  contrived  some 
scheme  to  disengage  himself  from  you.  The  attentions  of  Lord 
Mortimer  are  prompted  by  a motive  much  more  dangerous  than 
that  which  instigated  Sir  Charles.  He  really  admires  you,  and 
would  have  you  believe  his  views  are  honorable ; but  beware  of  his 
duplicity.  He  seeks  to  take  advantage  of  the  too  great  confidence 
you  repose  in  him.  His  purpose  once  accomplished,  he  would  sac- 
Tifice  you  to  Lady  Euphrasia ; and  I know  enough  of  her  malevolent 
disposition  to  be  convinced  she  would  enjoy  her  triumph  over  so 
lovely  a victim.  Ah,  my  dear  Atnanda,  even  beauty  and  elegance 
like  yours  would  not,  on  the  generality  of  mankind,  have  power  to 
make  them  forego  the  advantages  annexed  to  wealth — on  Lord 
Mortimer,  particularly,  they  would  fail  of  that  effect.  His  am- 
bition and  avarice  are  equal  to  his  father’s ; and  though  his  heart 
and  soul,  I am  confident,  revolt  from  the  mind  and  person  of  Lady 
Euphrasia,  he  will  unite  himself  to  her,  for  the  sake  of  possessing 
her  fortune,  and  thus  increasing  his  own  power  of  procuring  the 
gratifications  he  delights  in.  As  my  situation  is  known,  I cannot 
be  accused  of  deception,  and  whatever  I promise  will  be  strictly 
fulfilled.  Deliberate  therefore  no  longer,  my  Amanda,  on  the 
course  you  shall  pursue.’  ‘ No,’  cried  she,  ‘I  shall,  indeed,  no 
ionger  deliberate  about  it.  ’ 

As  she  spoke  she  started  from  her  seat.  Belgrave  again  seized 
her  hand.  At  this  moment  a knocking  was  heard  at  the  hall  door 
which  echoed  through  the  house.  Amanda  trembled,  and  Bel- 
grave  paused  in  a speech  he  had  begun.  She  supposed  the  mar- 
quis had  returned.  It  was  improbable  he  would  come  to  that 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


243 


room  ; and  even  if  he  did,  from  his  distrustful  and  malignant 
temper,  she  knew  not  wliether  she  should  have  reason  to  rejoice 
at  or  regret  his  presence.  But  how  great  was  her  confusion  when, 
instead  of  his  voice,  she  heard  those  of  the  marchioness  and  her 
party!  In  a moment  the  dreadful  consequences  which  might 
ensue  from  her  present  situation  rushed  upon  her  mind.  By  the 
forced  attentions  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  she 
was  not  long  deceived,  and  had  reason  to  believe,  from  the  invet- 
erate dislike  they  bore  her,  that  they  would  rejoice  at  an  oppor- 
tunity like  the  present  for  traducing  her  fame  ; and  with  horror 
she  saw  that  appearances,  even  in  the  eyes  of  candor,  would  be 
against  her.  She  had  positively,  and  unexpectedly,  refused  go- 
ing to  the  ball.  She  had  expressed  delight  at  the  idea  of  staying 
at  home.  Alas  ! would  not  all  these  circumstances  be  dwelt 
upon  ? What  ideas  might  they  not  excite  in  Lord  Mortimer,  who 
already  showed  a tendency  to  jealousy  ? Half  wild  at  the  idea^ 
she  clasped  her  hands  together  and  exclaimed,  in  a voice  trem- 
bling with  anguish  : ‘ Merciful  Heaven,  I am  ruined  forever  1 ’ 

‘ No,  no,’  cried  Belgrave,  flinging  himself  at  her  feet  ; ‘pardon 
me,  Amanda,  and  I never  more  will  molest  you.  I see  your 
principles  are  invincible.  I admire,  I revere  your  purity,  and 
never  more  will  I attempt  to  injure  it.  I was  on  the  point  of  de- 
claring so  when  that  cursed  knock  came  to  the  door.  Compose 
yourself,  and  consider  what  can  be  done  in  the  present  emergency. 
You  will  be  ruined  if  I am  seen  with  you.  The  malicious  devils 
you  live  with  would  never  believe  our  united  asseverations  of 
your  innocence.  Conceal  me,  therefore,  if  possible,  till  th© 
family  are  settled  ; the  person  who  let  me  in  will  then  secure  my 
retreat,  and  I swear  solemnly  never  more  to  trouble  you.’ 

Amanda  hesitated  between  the  confidence  her  innocence  in- 
spired, and  the  dread  of  the  unpleasant  construction  malice 
might  put  on  her  situation.  She  heard  the  party  ascending  the 
stairs.  Fear  conquered  her  reluctance  to  concealment,  and  she 
motioned  to  Belgrave  to  retire  to  a closet  adjoining  the  dressing 
room.  He  obeyed  the  motion,  and  closed  the  door  softly  after* 
him. 

Amanda,  snatching  up  her  book,  endeavored  to  compose  her**^ 
self ; but  the  effort  was  ineffectual — she  trembled  universally — 
nor  was  her  agitation  diminished  when,  from  the  outside  of  the 
door.  Lady  Euphrasia  called  to  her  to  open  it.  She  tottered  to  iL 
and  almost  fainted  on  finding  it  locked — with  difficulty  she 
opened  it,  and  the  whole  party,  followed  by  the  marquis,  entered. 

‘Upon  my  word.  Miss  Fitzalan,’ said  the  marchioness,  ‘you 
were  determined  no  one  should  disturb  your  meditations.  I fear 
we  have  surprised  you  ; but  poor  Euphrasia  was  taken  ill  at  the 
ball,  and  we  were  obliged  to  return  with  her.’  ‘Miss  Fitzalan 


244 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


has  not  been  much  better,  I believe,’  said  Lady  Euphrasia,  regar<J 
ing  her  attentively.  ‘ Grood  Lord,  child  1 ’ cried  Lady  Greystock, 
^ what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? why,  you  look  as  pale  as  if  you 
had  seen  a ghost.’  ‘ Miss  Fitzalan  is  fond  of  solitude,’  exclaimed 
the  marquis,  preventing  her  replying  to  Lady  Greystock.  ‘ When 
I returned  home  about  an  hour  ago,  I sent  to  request  her  com- 
pany in  the  parlor,  which  honor,  I assure  you,  I was  refused.’ 

The  message,  indeed,  had  been  sent,  but  never  delivered  to 
Amanda. 

‘ I assure  you,  my  lord,’  said  she,  ‘ I heard  of  no  such  request.’ 
^ And  pray,  child,  how  have  you  been  employed  all  this  time  ? ’ 
asked  Lady  Greystock.  ‘In  reading,  madam,’  faltered  out 
Amanda,  while  her  death-like  paleness  was  succeeded  by  a deep 
blush.  ‘You  are  certainly  ill,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  who  sat  be- 
side her,  in  a voice  expressive  of  regret  at  the  conviction.  ‘ You 
have  been  indulging  melancholy  ideas,  I fear,’  continued  he 
softly,  and  taking  her  hand,  ‘ for  surely — surely  to-night  you  are 
uncommonly  affected.’ 

Amanda  attempted  to  speak.  The  contending  emotions  of  her 
mind  prevented  her  utterance,  and  the  tears  trickled  silently  down 
her  cheeks.  Lord  Mortimer  saw  she  wished  to  avoid  notice,  yet 
scarcely  could  he  forbear  requesting  some  assistance  for  her.  J 

Lady  Euphrasia  now  complained  of  a violent  headache.  The 
marchioness  wanted  to  ring  for  remedies.  This  Lady  Euphrasia 
opposed  ; at  last,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  it,  she  said,  ‘in  the 
closet  there  was  a bottle  of  eau- de-luce,  which  she  v/as  certain 
would  be  of  service  to  her.’ 

At  the  mention  of  the  closet,  the  blood  ran  cold  through  the 
veins  of  Amanda  ; but  when  she  saw  Lady  Euphrasia  rise  to  enter 
it,  had  death,  in  its  most  frightful  form,  stared  her  in  the  face, 
she  could  not  have  betrayed  more  horror.  She  looked  toward  it 
with  a countenance  as  expressive  of  wild  affright  as  Macbeth’^, 
when  viewing  the  chair  on  which  the  specter  of  the  murdered 
Banquo  sat.  Lord  Mortimer,  observing  the  disorder  of  her  looks, 
began  to  tremble.  He  grasped  her  hand  with  a convulsive  motion, 
and  exclaimed  : 

‘Amanda,  what  means  this  agitation?’ 

A loud  scream  from  Lady  Euphrasia  broke  upon  their  ears,  and 
she  rushed  from  the  closet,  followed  by  Belgrave. 

‘ Gracious  Heaven ! ’ exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  dropping  Aman- 
da’s hand,  and  rising  precipitately. 

Amanda  looked  around — she  beheld  every  eye  fastened  on  her 
with  amazement  and  contempt.  The  shock  was  too  much  for  her 
to  support.  A confused  idea  started  into  her  mind  that  a deep- 
laid  plot  had  been  concerted  to  ruin  her  ; she  faintly  exclaimed, 

* I am  betrayed,’  and  sunk  back  upon  the  sofa. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


245 


Lord  Mortimer  started  at  her  exclamation,  ‘ Oh,  Heavens  I ’ cried 
he,  as  he  looked  toward  her  ; unable  to  support  the  scene  that 
would  ensue  in  consequence  of  this  discovery,  he  struck  his  fore- 
head in  agony,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room.  In  the  hall  he  was 
stopped  by  Mrs.  Jane,  the  maid  appointed  by  the  marchioness  to 
attend  Amanda. 

‘ Alack-a-day,  my  lord,’  said  she,  in  a whimpering  voice,  ‘some* 
thing  dreadful,  I am  afraid,  has  happened  above  stairs.  Oh,  dear! 
what  people  suffer  sometimes  by  their  good  nature.  I am  sure, 
if  I thought  any  harm  would  come  of  granting  Miss  Fitzalan’s  re- 
quest, she  might  have  begged  and  prayed  long  enough  before  I 
would  have  obliged  her.’  ‘ Did  she  desire  you  to  bring  Colonel 
Belgrave  to  this  house?’  asked  Lord  Mortimer.  ‘Oh,  to  be  sure 
she  did,  my  lord,  or  how  should  I ever  have  thought  of  such  a 
thing?  She  has  been  begging  and  praying  long  enough  for  me  to 
contrive  some  way  of  bringing  him  here  ; and  she  told  me  a pit- 
eous story,  which  would  have  softened  a stone,  of  his  being  a 
sweetheart  others  before  he  was  married.’  ‘Merciful  powers!’’ 
cried  Lord  Mortimer,  clasping  his  hands  together,  ‘ how  have  I 
been  deceived.’ 

He  was  hurrying  away,  when  Mrs.  Jane  caught  his  coat.  ‘ 1 
shall  lose  my  place,’  said  she,  sobbing,  ‘that  I shall,  most  cer- 
tainly ; for  my  lord  and  lady  never  will  forgive  my  bringing  any- 
one in  such  a way  into  the  house.  I am  sure  I thought  no  great 
harm  in  it,  and  did  it  quite  from  good  nature  ; for,  indeed,  how 
could  one  resist  the  poor,  dear  young  lady ; she  cried,  and  said  she 
only  wanted  to  bid  farewell  to  her  dear  Belgrave.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  could  bear  no  more.  He  shook  her  from  him, 
and  hurried  from  the  house. 

Amanda’s  faculties  suffered  but  a momentary  suspension  ; as 
she  opened  her  eyes,  her  composure  and  fortitude  returned. 

‘ I am  convinced,’  said  she,  rising  and  advancing  to  the  marquis, 
it  will  shock  your  lordship  to  hear  that  it  is  the  treachery  of 
some  person  under  your  roof  has  involved  me  in  my  present  em- 
barrassing situation.  For  my  own  justification,  ’tis  necessary  to 
acknowledge  that  I have  long  been  the  object  of  a pursuit  from 
Colonel  Belgrave  as  degrading  to  his  character  as  insulting  to 
mine.  When  he  broke  so  unexpectedly  upon  me  to-night,  he  de- 
clared— even  with  effrontery — declared  he  had  a friend  in  this  house 
who  gave  him  access  to  it.  As  your  guest,  my  lord,  I may  expect 
your  lordship’s  protection  ; also  that  an  immediate  inquiry  be 
made  for  the  abettor  in  this  scheme  against  me,  and  a full  discov- 
ery of  it  extorted — that  should  the  affair  be  mentioned,  it  may  be 
explained,  and  my  fame  cleared  of  every  imputation.’  ‘That, 
madam,’  said  the  marquis,  with  a malicious  sneer,  ‘ would  not  be 
so  easy  a matter  as  you  may  perhaps  suppose.  Neither  the  world 


246 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


nor  I am  so  credulous  as  you  imagine.  Your  story,  madam,  by  no 
means  hangs  well  together.  There  is  no  person  in  my  house  would 
have  dared  to  commit  the  act  you  accuse  them  of,  as  they  must 
know  the  consequence  of  it  would  be  immediate  dismission  from 
my  service.  Had  not  Colonel  Bel  grave  been  voluntarily  admitted, 
he  never  would  have  been  concealed  ; no,  madam,  you  would 
have  rejoiced  at  the  opportunity  our  presence  gave  you  of  punish- 
ing his  temerity.  Innocence  is  bold  ; ’tis  guilt  alone  is  timorous.’ 

The  truth  of  part  of  his  speech  struck  forcibly  on  Amanda  ; but 
how  could  she  explain  her  conduct  ? — how  declare  it  was  her 
dread  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia’s  malice  which  had 
made  her  consent  to  conceal  him. 

‘ Oh,  I see,’  said  she,  in  the  agony  of  her  soul— ‘I  see  I am  the 
dupe  of  complicated  artifice.’  ‘I  never  in  my  life,’  cried  the 
marchioness,  ‘ met  with  such  assurance — to  desire  the  marquis  to 
be  her  champion.’  ‘As  she  was  intrusted  to  my  care,  however,’ 
exclaimed  Lady  Grey  stock,  ‘ I think  it  necessary  to  inquire  into 
the  affair.  Pray,  sir,’  turning  to  the  colonel,  ‘by  what  means 
did  you  come  here  ? ’ 

The  colonel,  with  undiminished  assurance,  had  hitherto  stood 
near  the  fatal  closet,  leaning  on  a chair. 

‘ That,  madam,’  replied  he,  ‘I  must  be  excused  revealing.  Let 
me,  however,  assure  your  ladyship  ’tis  not  on  my  own  account  I 
affect  concealment.’  Here  he  glanced  at  Amanda.  ‘ Those  parts 
of  my  conduct,  however,  which  I choose  to  conceal,  I shall  always 
be  ready  to  defend.’  ‘Sir,’  cried  the  marquis  haughtily,  ‘no  ex- 
planation or  defense  of  your  conduct  is  here  req  uired  ; I have 
neither  right  nor  inclination  to  interfere  in  Miss  Fitzalan’s  con- 
cerns.’ 

The  colonel  bowed  to  the  circle,  and  was  retiring,  when  x\man- 
da  flew  to  him  and  caught  his  arm.  ‘Surely,  surely,’  said  she, 
almost  gasping  for  breath,  ‘you  cannot  be  so  inhuman  as  to  re- 
tire without  explaining  this  whole  affair.  O Bel  grave,  leave 
me  not  a prey  to  slander.  By  all  your  hopes  of  mercy  and  forgive- 
ness hereafter,  I conjure  you  to  clear  my  fame.’ 

‘ My  dear  creature,’  said  he,  in  a low  voice,  yet  loud  enough  to 
oe heard  by  the  whole  party,  ‘anything  I could  say  would  be  un- 
availing. You  find  they  are  determined  not  to  see  things  in  the 
light  we  wish  them  viewed.  Compose  yourself,  I beseech  you, 
and  be  assured,  while  I exist,  you  never  shall  want  comfort  or 
affluence.  * 

He  gently  disengaged  himself  as  he  spoke,  and  quitted  the  room, 
leaving  her  riveted  to  the  floor  in  amazement  at  his  insolence  and 
perfidy. 

‘ I am  sure,’  said  Lady  Greystock,  ‘ I shall  regret  all  my  life  the 
hour  in  which  I took  her  under  my  protection  : though  indeed^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


24r 


fix>m  what  I heard  soon  after  my  arrival  in  London,  I should 
have  dispatched  her  back  to  her  father,  but  I felt  a foolish  pity  for 
her.  I was  in  hopes,  indeed,  the  society  I had  introduced  her  to 
'would  have  produced  a reformation,  and  that  I might  be  the 
means  of  saving  a young  creature  from  entire  distruction.  ’ ‘ From 
what  I have  already  suffered  by  her  family,  nothing  should  have 
tempted  me  to  take  her  under  my  roof,’  exclaimed  the  marchion- 
ess. ‘Was  she  my  relation,’ cried  the  marquis,  ‘I  should  long 
since  have  come  to  a determination  about  her  ; as  yours,  madam,’ 
turning  to  the  marchioness,  ‘ I shall  not  attempt  forming  one  ; 1 
deem  it,  however,  absolutely  necessary  to  remove  Lady  Euphra- 
sia Sutherland  from  the  house  till  the  young  lady  chooses  to  quit 
it.  I shall,  therefore,  order  the  carriage  to  be  ready  at  an  early 
hour  for  the  villa.’ 

‘ I shall  certainly  accompany  your  lordship,  ’ cried  the  mar- 
chioness, ‘ for  I cannot  endure  her  sight  ; and  though  she  deserves 
it,  it  shall  not  be  said  that  we  turned  her  from  the  house.’  ‘The 
only  measure  she  should  pursue,’  exclaimed  Lady  Greystock,  ‘is 
to  set  off  as  soon  as  possible  for  Ireland  ; when  she  returns  to  ob- 
scurity the  affair  may  die  away.’  ‘ It  may,  however, ’ said  Aman- 
da, ‘ be  yet  revived  to  cover  with  confusion  its  contrivers.  To 
Heaven  I leave  the  vindication  of  my  innocence.  Its  justice  is 
sure,  though  sometimes  slow,  and  the  hour  of  retribution  often 
arrives  when  least  expected.  Much  as  I have  suffered — much  as 
I may  still  suffer,  I think  my  own  situation  preferable  to  theirs 
who  have  set  their  snares  around  me.  The  injurer  must  ever 
feel  greater  pangs  than  the  injured— the  pangs  of  guilt  and  re- 
remorse. I shall  return  to  my  obscurity,  happy  in  the  conscious- 
ness that  it  is  not  a shelter  from  shame,  but  a refuge  from  cruelty 
I seek.  But  can  I be  surprised  at  meeting  cruelty  from  those  who 
havedong  since  waived  the  ties  of  kindred  ! — from  those,’  and  she 
glanced  at  Lady  Greystock,  ‘ who  have  set  aside  the  claims  of 
justice-and  humanity  ? ’ 

The  marchioness  trembled  with  rage  at  this  speech,  and  as 
Amanda  retired  from  the  room,  exclaimed,  ‘ Intolerable  assur- 
*ance.’ 

Amanda  repaired  immediately  to  her  chamber.  She  tottered  as 
&iie  walked,  and  the  housekeeper  and  Mrs.  Jane,  who,  with  some 
other  servants,  had  assembled  out  of  curiosity  near  the  door,  fol- 
lowed her  thither. 

The  emotions  she  had  so  painfully  suppressed  now  burst  forth 
■with  violence.  She  fell  into  an  agony  of  tears  and  sobs  which 
impeded  her  breathing.  The  housekeeper  and  Jane  loosened  her 
clothes  and  supported  her  to  the  bed.  In  a short  time  she  was 
sufficiently  recovered  to  be  able  to  speak,  and  requested  they 
would  engage  a carriage  for  her  gainst  the  next  day,  at  an  early 


,48 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


hour,  that  she  might  commence  her  journey  to  Ireland.  This 
they  promised,  and  at  her  desire  retired^ 

Success,  but  not  happiness,  had  crowned  the  marchioness’s 
scheme.  She  triumphed  in  the  disgrace  she  had  drawn  upon 
Amanda,  but  feared  that  disgrace  was  only  temporary.  She  had 
entangled  her  in  a snare,  but  she  dreaded  not  having  secured  her 
in  it.  She  distrusted  those  who  had  assisted  her  designs — for  the 
guilty  will  ever  suspect  each  other.  They  might  betray  her,  or 
Colonel  Belgrave  might  repent ; but  such  evils,  if  they  did  ever 
arrive,  were  probably  far  distant.  In  the  interim,  all  she  desired 
to  accomplish  might  be  affected.  Long  had  she  been  meditating 
on  some  plan  which  should  ruin  Amanda  forever — not  only  in 
the  opinion  of  Lord  Mortimer,  but  in  the  estimation  of  the  world* 
With  the  profligacy  of  Colonel  Belgrave  she  was  well  acquainted^ 
and  inclined  from  it  to  believe  that  he  would  readily  join  in  any 
scheme  which  could  give  him  a chance  of  possessing  Amanda.  On 
discovering  her  residence,  he  had  ordered  his  valet,  who  was  a 
trusty  agent  in  all  his  villainies,  to  endeavor  to  gain  access  to  the 
■ house,  that  he  might  discover  whether  there  was  a chance  of  in- 
troducing  him  there.  The  valet  obeyed  his  orders,  and  soon  at- 
tached himself  to  Mrs.  Jane,  whom  the  marchioness  had  placed 
about  Amanda,  from  knowing  she  was  capable  of  any  deceitful 
part.  She  was  introduced  to  Belgrave,  and  a handsome  present  se- 
cured her  in  his  interest. 

She  communicated  to  the  marchioness  the  particulars  of  their 
interview.  From  that  period  they  had  been  seeking  to  bring 
about  such  a scene  as  was  at  last  acted  ; for  the  conduct  of 
Amanda  had  hitherto  defeated  their  intentions.  Her  staying 
from  the  ball  at  last  gave  the  wished-for  opportunity. 

Lady  Euphrasia  was  apprised  of  the  whole  plot,  and  the  hint  of 
her  indisposition  was  given  in  the  morning,  that  no  suspicion 
might  be  entertained  in  the  evening,  when  mentioned  as  a plea 
for  returning  home  earlier  than  was  intended. 

Colonel  Belgrave  was  introduced  into  the  closet  by  Mrs,  Jane,, 
through  a door  that  opened  from  the  lobby  ; and  while  Amanda 
sat  pensively  reading,  he  stole  out,  and  secured  the  other  door,  as 
already  mentioned. 

When  Lady  Euphrasia  declared  she  was  too  ill  to  continue  at 
the  ball.  Lord  Mortimer  offered  to  attend  her  home.  Had  he  not 
done  so,  the  marchioness  intended  to  have  asked  him. 

The  marquis  was  persuaded  that  Amanda  was  an  artful  and 
dangerous  rival  to  his  daughter,  and  he  hated  her  from  that  con- 
sideration. The  laws  of  hospitality  obliged  him  to  treat  her  with 
politeness,  but  he  gladly  seized  the  first  opportunity  that  offered 
for  expressing  his  dislike. 

Lady  Greystock  saw  thi^ough  the  plot,  but  she  professed  hei 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


249 


belief  of  Amanda’s  guilt,  which  was  all  the  marchioness  re* 
quired. 

The  marquis  left  the  ladies  together,  while  he  went  to  give 
orders  about  his  early  journey.  Soon  after  his  departure  a loud 
knocking  was  heard,  which  announced  a visitor  ; and  from  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  they  conjectured,  and  were  right  in  doing 
so,  that  it  must  be  Lord  Mortimer. 

After  traversing  several  streets,  in  an  agony  no  language  could 
describe,  he  returned  to  Portman  Square.  His  fancy  presented 
Amanda  to  his  view,  overwhelmed  with  shame,  and  sinking 
beneath  the  keen  reproaches  leveled  at  her.  In  the  idea  of  her 
sufferings,  all  resentment  for  the  supposed  perfidy  was  forgotten. 
Human  nature  was  liable  to  err,  and  the  noblest  effort  that 
nature  could  make  was  to  pardon  such  errors.  To  speak  comfort 
to  this  fallen  angel,  he  felt  would  relieve  the  weight  which  pressed 
upon  his  own  breast.  Pale  and  disordered  he  entered  the  room, 
and  found  the  ladies  apparently  much  affected. 

^ My  dear  lord,’  said  the  marchioness,  ‘ I am  glad  you  are  come 
back.  As  a friend  of  the  family,  you  may  perhaps  honor  us  with 
your  advice  on  the  present  occasion.’  ‘ Indeed,’ exclaimed  Lady 
Greystock,  ‘ I suppose  his  lordship  is  at  as  great  a loss  to  know 
what  can  be  done  as  we  are.  Was  the  colonel  in  a situation  to 
make  any  reparation — but  a married  man,  only  think,  how  horri- 
ble ! ’ ‘ Execrable  monster  ! ’ cried  Lord  Mortimer,  starting  from 

his  seat,  and  traversing  the  room,  ‘ it  were  a deed  of  kindness  to 
mankind  to  extirpate  him  from  the  earth  ; but  say,  ’ continued 
he,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he  spoke,  ‘ where  is  the  unfortu- 
nate  ,’  he  could  not  pronounce  the  name  of  Amanda.  ‘ In  her 

own  room,’  replied  the  marchioness.  ‘ I assure  you,  she  behaved 
with  not  a little  insolence,  on  Lady  Greystock  advising  her  to  re- 
turn home.  For  my  part,  I shall  let  her  act  as  she  pleases.’ 

She  then  proceeded  to  mention  the  marquis’s  resolution  ot 
leaving  the  house  till  she  had  quitted  it,  and  that  he  insisted  on 
their  accompanying  him. 

‘To  return  to  her  father  is  certainly  the  only  eligible  plan  sh  j 
can  pursue,’  said  Lord  Mortimer  ; ‘ but  allow  me,’  continued  he, 
'to  request  that  your  ladyship  will  not  impute  to  insolence  any 
expression  which  dropped  from  her.  Pity  her  wounded  feelings, 
and  soften  her  sorrows.’  ‘I  declare,’ cried  Lady  Euphrasia,  ‘I 
thought  I should  have  fainted  from  the  pity  I felt  for  her.’  ‘You 
pitied  her,  then,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  sitting  down  by  her  lady- 
ship, ‘you  pitied  and  soothed  her  afflictions?’  ‘Yes,  indeed,’ 
replied  she. 

If  ever  Lady  Euphrasia  appeared  pleasing  in  the  eyes  of  Lord 
Mortimer  it  was  at  this  moment,  when  he  was  credulous  enough 
to  believe  she  had  shed  the  tear  of  pity  over  his  lost  Amanda.  He 


250  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

took  her  hand.  ‘Ah!  my  dear  Lady  Euphrasia,’  said  he,  in  an 
accent  of  melting  softness,  ' perhaps  even  now  she  needs  consola- 
tion. A gentle  female  friend  would  be  a comfort  to  her  wounded 
heart.’ 

Lady  Euphrasia  immediately  took  the  hint,  and  said  she  would 
go  to  her. 

He  led  her  to  the  door.  ‘You  are  going,’  cried  he,  ‘toper- 
form  the  office  of  an  angel — to  console  tiie  afflicted.  Ah ! well 
does  it  become  the  young  and  gentle  of  your  sex  to  pity  such  niis- 
fortunes.’ 

Her  ladyship  retired,  but  not  indeed  to  the  chamber  of  the  for- 
lorn Amanda.  In  her  own  she  vented  the  rage  of  her  soul  in 
something  little  short  of  execrations  against  Lord  Mortimer,  for 
the  affection  she  saw  he  still  retained  for  Amanda. 

On  her  ladyship’s  retiring,  Lady  Greystock  mentioned  every 
particular  she  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Jennings^  and  bitterly 
lamented  her  having  ever  taken  Amanda  under  her  protection., 
The  subject  was  too  painful  to  be  long  endured  by  Lord  Mortimer* 
He  had  heard  of  the  early  hour  fixed  for  their  journey,  and  say- 
ing he  would  no  longer  keep  the  ladies  from  repose,  precipitately 
retired.  He  gave  his  man  directions  to  watch  their  motions  and 
inform  him  when  they  left  town. 

Exhausted  by  the  violence  of  her  emotions,  a temporary  forget- 
fulness stole  over  the  senses  of  Amanda,  on  her  being  left  to  soli- 
tude. In  this  state  she  continued  till  roused  by  a bustle  in  the 
house.  She  started,  listened,  and  heard  the  sound  of  a carriage. 
Supposing  it  to  be  the  one  she  had  ordered  for  her  departure,  she 
sprang  from  the  bed,  and,  going  to  the  window,  saw  instead  of 
one  for  her,  the  marquis’s,  into  which  he  was  handing  the  ladies. 
As  soon  as  it  drove  from  the  door,  she  rang  the  bell,  and  the 
housekeeper  immediately  appeared,  as  Mrs.  Jane  had  attended 
the  marchioness  to  the  villa.  Amanda  inquired  ‘ whether  a car- 
riage, as  she  directed,  had  been  engaged  for  her.’ 

The  housekeeper  replied,  ‘ the  hour  in  which  she  spoke  was 
too  late  for  such  a purpose,  but  she  had  now  sent  about  one.’ 

Amanda  endeavored  to  exert  herself,  and  was  packing  up  her 
clothes,  when  a maid  entered  the  chamber,  and  said,  ‘ Lord  Mor- 
timer was  below,  and  wished  to  speak  to  her.’ 

Tumultuous  joy  pervaded  the  mind  of  Amanda.  She  had  be- 
lieved it  probable  she  should  not  see  him  again  before  her  depar- 
ture for  Ireland,  from  whence  she  had  determined  writing  to  him 
the  particulars  of  the  affair.  His  visit  seemed  to  announce  he 
thought  not  unfavorably  of  her.  She  supposed  he  came  to  assure 
her  that  his  opinion  of  her  integrity  was  unshaken — ‘ and  I shall 
yet  triumph,’  cried  she,  in  the  transport  of  the  idea,  ‘over 
malice  and  treachery.’ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


251 


She  sprung  past  the  maid ; her  feet  scarce  touched  the  ground, 
and  in  a moment  she  found  herself  in  the  arms  of  Lord  Mortimer, 
which  involuntarily  opened  to  receive  her,  for,  trembling,  weak, 
and  disordered,  she  would  else,  on  seeing  him,  have  sunk  to  the 
floor.  He  supported  her  to  a sofa.  In  a little  time  she  raised  her 
head  from  his  shoulder,  and  exclaimed,  ‘Oh,  you  are  come!  i 
know  you  are  come  to  comfort  me.’  ‘ Would  to  Heaven,’  he  an- 
swered, ‘I  were  capable  of  either  giving  or  receiving  comfort. 
The  period,  however,  I trust,  may  yet  arrive  when  we  shall  both 
at  least  be  more  composed.  To  mitigate  your  sorrows  would  les- 
sen my  own ; for  never,  oh,  never ! can  my  heart  forget  the  love 
and  esteem  it  once  bore  Amanda.’  ‘Once  bore  her  I’  repeated 
Amanda.  ‘ Once  bore  her.  Lord  Mortimer  I do  you  say?  Then 
you  wish  to  imply  they  no  longer  exist?  ’ 

The  tone  of  anguish  in  which  she  spoke  pierced  the  heart  of 
Lord  Mortimer.  Unable  to  speak,  he  arose,  and  walked  to  the 
window,  to  hide  his  emotion.  His  words,  his  silence,  all  con- 
veyed a fatal  truth  to  Amanda.  She  saw  a dreadful  and  eternal 
separation  effected  between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer.  She  beheld 
herself  deprived  of  reputation,  loaded  with  calumny,  and  no 
longer  an  object  of  love,  but  of  detestation  and  contempt.  Her 
anguish  was  almost  too  great  to  bear,  yet  the  pride  of  injured  in- 
nocence made  her  wish  to  conceal  it;  and,  as  Lord  Mortimer  stood 
at  the  window,  she  determined  to  try  and  leave  the  room  with- 
out his  knowledge,  but  ere  she  gained  the  4,oor  her  head  grew  giddy, 
her  strength  failed,  she  staggered,  faintly  screamed  on  linding 
herself  falling,  and  sunk  upon  the  floor. 

Lord  Mortimer  wildly  called  for  assistance.  He  raised  and 
carried  her  back  to  the  sofa ; he  strained  her  to  his  bosom,  kissed 
her  pale  lips,  and  wept  over  her. 

‘ I have  wounded  your  gentle  soul,  my  Amanda,’  cried  he,  ‘ but 
I have  tortured  my  own  by  doing  so.  Ah ! still  dearest  of  women, 
did  the  world  compassionate  your  errors  as  I compassionate  them, 
neither  contempt  nor  calumny  would  ever  be  your  portion.  How 
Dale  she  looks!’  said  he,  raising  his  head  to  gaze  upon  her  face; 
‘ how  like  a flower  untimely  faded ! Yet  were  it  happiness  for 
her  never  to  revive ; a soul  like  hers,  originally  noble,  must  be 
wretched  under  the  pressure  of  scorn.  Execrable  Belgrave ! the 
fairest  work  of  heaven  is  destroyed  by  you.  Oh ! my  Amanda, 
my  distress  is  surely  severe — though  anguish  rives  my  heart  for 
your  loss,  I must  conceal  it — the  sad  luxury  of  grief  will  be  de- 
nied me,  for  the  world  would  smile  if  I could  say  I now  lamented 
you.’ 

Such  were  the  effusions  of  sorrow  which  broke  from  Lord  Mor- 
timer over  the  insensible  Amanda.  The  housekeeper,  who  had 
been  listening  all  this  time,  now  appeared,  as  if  in  obedience  6c 


^52 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


his  call,  and  offered  her  assistance  in  recovering  Amanda.  Heavy 
sighs  at  length  gave  hopes  of  her  restoration.  Lord  Mortimer, 
unable  to  support  her  pathetic  lamentations,  determined  to  de- 
part ere  she  was  perfectly  sensible. 

‘Miss  Fitzalan,’  said  he  to  the  housekeeper,  ‘ will  wish,  I am 
convinced,  to  quit  this  house  immediately.  I shall  take  upon 
myself  to  procure  her  a carriage,  also  a proper  attendant,  for  her 
journey,  which,  I flatter  myself,  she  will  be  able  to  commence  in 
a few  hours.  Be  kind,  be  gentle  to  her,  my  good  woman,  and 
depend  on  my  eternal  gratitude.  When  she  is  recovered,  deliver 
her  this  letter.’ 

The  housekeeper  promised  to  observe  his  injunctions,  and  he 
departed. 

To  Ireland,  with  Amanda,  he  intended  sending  an  old  female 
servant,  who  had  formerly  been  an  attendant  of  his  mother’s, 
and  his  own  man.  He  was  shocked  at  the  conduct  of  the 
marchioness  and  Lady  Greystock,  and  thought  them  guilty  of 
the  highest  inhumanity  in  thus  deserting  Amanda.  The  letter 
he  had  put  into  the  housekeeper’s  hands  excited  her  curiosity  so 
strongly  that  she  was  tempted  to  gratify  it.  Amanda  was  not  in 
a situation  to  perceive  what  she  did,  the  letter  could  easily  be 
sealed  again,  and,  in  short,  without  longer  hesitation,  she  opened 
it.  How  great  was  her  amazement,  on  finding  it  contained  a 
banknote  for  five  hundred  pounds.  The  words  were  as  follows : 

Consider  me,  Amanda,  in  the  light  of  a brother  ; as  such  accept  my  services ; to  serve 
you,  in  any  manner,  will  be  a source  of  consolation,  which  I flatter  myself  you  will  be 
happy  to  allow  me.  ’Tis  necessary  you  should  return  immediately  to  your  father  ; 
hesitate  not,  then,  about  using  the  inclosed.  Your  complying  with  my  request  will 
prove  that  you  yet  retain  a friendship  for 

Mortiheb. 

‘ What  a sum ! ’ cried  the  housekeeper,  as  she  examined  the  note  ; 
* what  a nice  little  independency  would  this,  in  addition  to  what  I 
have  already  saved,  be  for  an  honest  woman ! what  a pity  it  is 
such  a creature  as  it  is  designed  for  should  possess  it ! ’ The 
housekeeper,  like  her  lady,  was  fertile  in  invention  ; to  be  sure 
there  was  some  danger  in  her  present  scheme,  but  for  such  a priz< 
it  was  worth  her  while  to  run  some  risk.  Could  she  but  get 
Amanda  off  ere  the  carriage  from  Lord  Mortimer  arrived,  she  be- 
lieved all  would  succeed  as  she  could  wish.  Amanda,  ignorant 
as  she  was  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  intentions,  would  not  consequently 
be  influenced  by  them  to  oppose  anything  she  could  do.  Full 
of  this  idea,  she  ran  out,  and  calling  a footman,  high  in  her  favor, 
desired  him  immediately  to  procure  a traveling  chaise  for  Miss 
Fitzalan.  She  then  returned  to  Amanda,  who  was  just  begin- 
ning to  move. 

‘Come,  come,’ cried  she,  going  to  her,  roughly  shaking  her 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


253 


shoulder,  ‘ have  done  with  those  tragedy  airs,  and  prepare  your- 
self against  the  carriage  you  ordered  conies  ; it  will  be  at  the 
door  in  a few  minutes.’ 

Amanda  looked  round  the  room.  ‘ Is  Lord  Mortimer  gone, 
then?’  said  she.  ‘Lord,  to  be  sure  he  is,’  cried  the  housekeeper; 
^ he  left  you  on  the  floor,  and,  as  he  went  out,  he  said  you  should 
never  have  another  opportunity  of  deceiving  him.  ’ 

A sudden  frenzy  seemed  to  seize  Amanda;  she  wrung  her 
hands,  called  upon  Lord  Mortimer  in  the  impassioned  language 
of  despair,  and  flung  herself  on  the  ground,  exclaiming,  ‘ This 
last  stroke  is  more  than  I can  bear.’ 

The  housekeeper  grew  alarmed  lest  her  agitation  should  retard 
her  departure  ; she  raised  her  forcibly  from  the  ground,  and  said, 
^she  must  compose  herself  to  begin  her  journey,  which  was 
unavoidable,  as  the  marchioness  had  given  absolute  orders  to 
have  her  sent  from  the  house  early  in  the  morning.’ 

‘ Accursed  house ! ’ said  Amanda,  whose  reason  was  restored  by 
the  strenuous  remonstrances  of  the  housekeeper.  ‘ Oh,  that  I 
had  never  entered  it ! ’ She  then  told  her  companion,  ‘ if  she 
would  assist  her,  as  she  was  almost  too  weak  to  do  anything  for 
herself,  she  would  be  ready  against  the  carriage  came.’  The 
housekeeper  and  maid  accordingly  attended  her  to  her  chamber  ; 
the  former  brought  her  drops,  and  the  latter  assisted  in  putting 
on  her  habit,  and  packing  up  her  clothes.  Amanda,  having 
secured  her  trunks,  desired  they  might  be  sent,  by  the  flrst 
opportunity,  to  Castle  Carberry ; she  had  left  a great  many  clothes 
there,  so  took  nothing  at  present  with  her  but  a small  quantity  of 
linen.  She  had  but  a few  guineas  in  her  purse;  her  watch,  how- 
ever, was  valuable  ; and  if  she  had  money  enough  to  carry  her 
to  Dublin,  she  knew  there  she  might  procure  a sufficient  sum 
on  it  to  carry  her  home. 

At  last  the  carriage  came  ; with  a trembling  frame,  and  half- 
broken  heart,  Amanda  entered  it.  She  saw  Nicholas,  the  footman, 
who  had  procured  it,  ready  mounted  to  attend  her.  She  told 
nim  it  was  unnecessary  to  do  so  ; but  he  declared  he  could  noG 
think  of  letting  so  young  a lady  travel  unprotected.  She  was 
pleased  at  his  attention  ; she  had  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  her  forlon^ 
situation,  and  now  dropped  a tear  of  sweet  sensibility  at  finding 
she  was  not  utterly  deserted  by  every  human  being.  The  car- 
riage took  the  road  to  Parkgate,  as  Amanda  chose  to  embark 
from  thence,  the  journey  being  so  much  nearer  to  it  than  to 
Holyhead.  It  was  now  about  eight  o’clock  ; after  traveling 
four  hours,  the  chaise  stopped  at  a small  house  on  the  roccdside, 
which  appeared  to  be  a common  alehouse.  Amanda  was  ur. 
willing  to  enter  it  ; but  the  horses  were  here  to  be  changed,  and 
was  shown  into  a dirty  parlor,  where,  almost  sinking  with  weak 


254 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ness,  she  ordered  tea  to  be  immediately  brought  in.  She  was 
much  astonished,  as  she  sat  at  the  tea-table,  to  see  Nicholas  enter 
the  room  with  a familiar  air,  and  seat  himself  by  her.  She  stared 
at  him  at  first,  supposing  him  intoxicated  ; but  perceiving  no 
signs  of  this  in  his  countenance,  began  to  fear  that  the  insults 
she  had  received  at  the  marquis’s  made  him  think  himself  author-^ 
ized  to  treat  her  with  this  insolence.  She  rose  abruptly,  and, 
summoning  all  her  resolution  to  her  aid,  desired  him  to  retire, 
adding,  ‘ If  his  attendance  was  requisite  she  would  ring  for  him. 

Nicholas  also  quitted  his  seat,  and  following  her,  caught  her  in 
his  arms,  exclaiming,  ‘Bless  us,  how  hoity  toity  you  are  grown! 

Amanda  shrieked,  and  stamped  on  the  floor  in  an  agony  of 
terror  and  indignation. 

‘ Why,  now  really,’  said  he,  ‘ after  what  happened  at  home,  I 
think  you  need  not  be  so  coy  with  me.’  ‘ Oh,  save  me.  Heaven^ 
from  this  wretch  1 ’ was  all  the  affrighted  Amanda  could  artic- 
ulate. 

The  door  opened.  A waiter  appeared,  and  told  Nicholas  he 
was  wanted  without.  Nicholas  released  Amanda,  and  ran  directly 
from  the  room.  Amanda  sunk  upon  a chair,  and  her  head  turned 
giddy  at  the  idea  of  the  danger  with  which  she  was  surrounded. 
She  saw  herself  in  the  power  of  a wretch — perhaps  wretches,  for 
the  house  seemed  a proper  place  for  scenes  of  villainy — without 
the  means  of  delivering  herself.  She  walked  to  the  window.  A 
confused  idea  of  getting  through  it,  and  running  from  the  house, 
darted  into  her  mind,  but  she  turned  from  it  in  agony  at  seeing  a 
number  of  countrymen  drinking  before  it.  She  now  could  only 
raise  her  feeble  hands  to  heaven  to  supplicate  its  protection. 

She  passed  some  minutes  in  this  manner,  when  the  lock  turned 
and  made  her  shudder,  but  it  was  the  landlady  alone  who  entered. 
She  came,  she  said,  with  Nicholas’s  respectful  duty  and  he  was 
sorry  he  was  obliged  to  go  back  to  town  without  seeing  her  safe 
to  her  journey’s  end. 

‘ Is  he  really  gone  ? ’ asked  Amanda,  with  all  the  eagerness  of 
joy.  ‘Yes,’  the  woman  said  ; ‘a  person  had  followed  him  from 
London  on  purpose  to  bring  him  back.’  ‘ Is  the  carriage  ready  t ’ 
cried  Amanda.  She  was  informed  it  was.  ‘Let  me  fly,  thenl'' 
The  landlady  impeded  her  progress  to  tell  her  the  bill  was  not 
yet  settled.  Amanda  pulled  out  her  purse,  and  besought  her 
not  to  detain  her.  This  the  woman  had  no  desire  to  do.  Things 
were  therefore  settled  without  delay  between  them,  and  Amanda 
was  driven  with  as  much  expedition  as  she  could  desire  from  the 
terrifying  mansion.  The  chaise  had  proceeded  about  two  miles, 
when,  in  the  middle  of  a solitary  road,  or  rather  lane,  by  the  side 
of  a wood,  it  suddenly  stopped.  Amanda,  alarmed  at  every 
oicident.  hastily  looked  out,  and  inquired  what  was  the  matter  ; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


255 


but  how  impossible  to  describe  her  terror  when  she  beheld  Colo- 
nel Belgrave,  and  Nicholas  standing  by  him  ! She  shrunk  back, 
and  entreated  the  postilion  to  drive  on  ; but  he  heeded  not  her 
entreaty.  Nicholas  opened  the  door,  and  Belgrave  sprang  into  the 
carriage.  Amanda  attempted  to  burst  open  the  door  at  the  oppo- 
site side  ; but  he  caught  her  to  his  bosom,  and  the  horses  set  off 
at  full  speed.  Colonel  Belgrave’s  valet  had  been  secreted  by 
Mrs.  Jane  the  preceding  night  in  the  house,  that  he  might  be 
able  to  give  his  master  intelligence  of  all  that  passed  within  it  in 
consequence  of  his  being  discovered  in  the  closet.  On  hearing 
the  family  were  gone  to  the  marquis’s  villa,  Belgrave  believed  he 
could  easily  prevail  on  the  domestics  to  deliver  up  Amanda  to 
him.  Elated  with  hope,  he  reached  the  house,  attended  by  his 
valet,  just  after  she  had  quitted  it.  The  housekeeper  hesitated  to 
inform  him  of  the  road  she  had  taken  till  she  had  procured  what 
she  knew  would  be  the  consequence  of  her  hesitation — a large 
bribe.  Horses  were  then  immediately  procured,  and  Belgrave 
and  his  servant  set  off  in  pursuit  of  Amanda.  The  sight  of  a 
traveling  chaise,  at  the  little  inn  already  mentioned,  prompted 
their  inquiries  ; and  on  finding  the  chaise  waited  for  Amanda,  the 
colonel  retired  to  a private  room,  sent  for  Nicholas,  and  secured 
him  in  his  interest.  It  was  settled  they  should  repair  to  the 
wood,  by  which  the  postilion  was  bribed  to  pass,  and  from  thence 
proceed  to  a country  house  of  the  colonel’s.  Their  scheme  ac- 
complished, Nicliolas,  happy  in  the  service  he  had  done,  or  rather 
the  reward  he  had  obtained  for  that  service,  again  turned  his 
face  toward  London. 

The  carriage  and  attendants  Lord  Mortimer  procured  for 
Amanda  arrived  even  earlier  than  the  housekeeper  had  expected, 
and  she  blessed  her  lucky  stars  for  the  precipitancy  with  which 
she  had  hurried  off  Amanda.  Thej^  were  followed  by  his  lord- 
ship  himself,  whose  wretched  heart  could  not  support  the  idea  of 
letting  Amanda  depart  without  once  more  beholding  her.  GreaJ 
was  his  dismay,  his  astonishment,  when  the  housekeeper  in- 
formed him  she  was  gone. 

‘ Gone  ! ’ he  repeated,  changing  color. 

The  housekeeper  said  that,  without  her  knowledge.  Miss  h’itzaian 
had  a chaise  hired,  and  the  moment  it  came  to  the  door  stepped 
into  it,  notwithstanding  she  was  told  his  lordship  meant  to  pro- 
vide everything  proper  for  her  journey  himself.  ‘But  she  said, 
my  lord,’  cried  the  housekeeper,  ‘ she  wanted  none  of  your  care, 
and  that  she  could  never  get  fast  enough  from  a house,  or  from 
people,  where  and  by  whom  she  had  been  so  ill-treated.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  asked  if  she  had  any  attendant,  and  whether 
she  took  the  letter. 

The  housekeeper  answered  both  these  questions  in  the  affirm-' 


256 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ative.  ‘ Truly,  my  lord,’  she  continued,  ‘I  believe  your  lordship 
said  something  in  that  letter  which  pleased  her,  for  she  smiled 
on  opening  it,  and  said,  “ Well,  well,  this  is  something  like  com- 
fort.” ’ ‘And  was  she  really  so  mean  V he  was  on  the  point  of  ask- 
ing, but  he  timely  checked  a question  which  was  springing  from  a 
heart  that  sickened  at  finding  the  object  of  its  tenderest  affec- 
tions unworthy  in  every  respect  of  possessing  them.  Every  idea 
of  this  kind  soon  gave  way  to  anxiety  on  her  account.  His  heart 
misgave  him  at  her  undertaking  so  long  a journey  under  the 
protection  of  a common  servant  ; and,  unable  to  endure  his 
apprehensions,  he  determined  instantly  to  pursue  and  see  her 
safe  himself  to  the  destined  port. 

The  woman,  who  had  hitherto  sat  in  the  chaise,  was  ordered 
to  return  home.  He  entered  it  with  eagerness,  and  promised 
liberally  to  reward  the  postilions  if  they  used  expedition.  They 
had  changed  horses  but  once  when  Lord  Mortimer  saw  Nicholas 
approaching,  whom,  at  the  first  glance,  he  knew.  He  stopped 
the  carriage,  and  called  out,  ‘Where  have  you  left  Miss  Fitz- 
alan  ? ’ ‘ Faith,  my  lord,’  cried  Nicholas,  instantly  stopping  and 

taking  off  his  hat,  ‘ in  very  good  company.  I left  her  with  Colo- 
nel Belgrave,  who  was  waiting  by  appointment  on  the  road  for 
her.’  ‘Oh  ! horrible  infatuation  I ’ said  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘that 
nothing  can  snatch  her  from  the  arms  of  infamy.’ 

The  postilion  desired  to  know  whether  he  should  return  to 
London. 

Lord  Mortimer  hesitated,  and  at  last  desired  him  to  go  on  ac- 
cording to  his  first  directions.  He  resolved  to  proceed  to  Park- 
gate  and  discover  whether  Amanda  had  returned  to  Ireland. 
They  had  not  proceeded  far  when  they  overtook  a traveling 
chaise.  As  Lord  Mortimer  passed,  he  looked  into  it,  and  beheld 
Amanda,  reclining  on  the  bosom  of  Belgrave.  He  trembled  uni* 
versally,  closed  his  eyes,  and  sighed  out  the  name  of  the  perfid- 
ious Amanda.  When  they  had  got  some  way  before  the  other 
chaise,  he  desired  the  postilion  to  strike  off  into  another  road, 
which  by  a circuit  of  a few  miles  would  bring  them  back  to 
London.  Amanda,  it  was  evident,  had  put  herself  under  the 
protection  of  Belgrave,  and  to  know  whether  she  went  to  Ire- 
land was  now  of  little  consequence  to  him,  as  he  supposed  her 
unreclaimable.  But  how  impossible  to  describe  his  distress  and 
confusion  when  almost  the  first  object  he  beheld,  on  alighting  in 
St.  James’s  Square,  was  his  aunt.  Lady  Martha  Dormer,  who,  in 
compliance  with  his  urgent  request,  had  hastened  to  London. 
Had  a specter  crossed  his  sight  he  could  not  have  been  more 
shocked. 

‘ Well,  my  dear  Frederick,’  said  her  ladyship,  ‘ you  see  I lost 
no  time  in  obeying  youi*  wishes.  I have  flown  hither,  I may 


THE  CHILDRE]^  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


257 


indeed  say,  on  the  wings  of  love.  But  where  is  this  little  divinity 
of  thine  ? I long  to  have  a peep  at  her  goddess-ship.’ 

Lord  Mortimer,  inexpressibly  shocked,  turned  to  the  window. 

‘I  shall  see,  to  be  sure,’  cried  her  ladyship,  ‘quite  a little  par- 
agon. Positively,  Frederick,  I will  be  introduced  this  very  even- 
ing.’  ‘My  dear  aunt,  my  Lady  Martha,’  said  Lord  Mortimer, 
impatiently,  ‘for  Heaven’s  sake  spare  me!’  ‘But  tell  me,’  she 
continued,  ‘ when  I shall  commence  this  attack  upon  your  father’s 
heart?’  ‘Never!  never!’  sighed  Mortimer,  half  distracted. 

‘ What  ! you  suppose  he  will  prove  inflexible?  But  I do  not  despair 
of  convincing  you  to  the  contrary.  Tell  me,  Frederick,  when 
the  little  charmer  is  to  be  seen?'  ‘O  God!’  cried  Mortimer, 
striking  his  forehead.  ‘ She  is  lost,’  said  he,  ‘ she  is  lost  forever  !’ 

Lady  Martha  was  alarmed.  She  now,  for  the  first  time,  noticed 
the  wild  and  pallid  looks  of  her  nephew.  ‘ Gracious  Heaven ! ’ she 
exclaimed,  ‘ what  is  the  matter?  ’ 

The  dreadful  explanation  Lord  Mortimer  now  found  himself 
under  a necessity  of  giving ; the  shame  of  acknowledging  he  was 
so  deceived,  the  agony  he  suffered  from  that  deception,  joined  to 
the  excessive  agitation  and  fatigue  he  had  suffered  the  preceding 
night,  and  the  present  day,  so  powerfully  assailed  him  at  this 
moment,  that  his  senses  suddenly  gave  way,  and  he  actually 
fainted  on  the  floor. 

What  a sight  for  the  tender  Lady  Martha ! She  saw  something 
dreadful  had  happened,  and  what  this  was  Lord  Mortimer,  as  soon 
as  he  recovered,  informed  her. 

He  then  retired  to  his  chamber.  He  could  neither  converse  nor 
bear  to  be  conversed  with.  His  fondest  hopes  were  blasted,  nor 
could  he  forego  the  sad  indulgence  of  mourning  over  them  in  soli- 
tude. He  felt  almost  convinced  that  the  hold  Amanda  had  on  his 
affections  could  not  be  withdrawn;  he  had  considered  her  as 
scarcely  less  than  his  wife,  and  had  she  been  really  such,  her 
present  conduct.could  not  have  given  him  more  anguish.  Had 
she  been  snatched  from  him  by  the  hand  of  death ; had  she  been 
wedded  to  a worthy  character,  he  could  have  summoned  fortitude 
to  his  aid ; but  to  find  her  the  prey  of  a villain  was  a shock  too 
horrible  to  bear,  at  least  for  a long  period,  with  patience. 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

And  let  a maid  thy  pity  share, 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 

Companion  of  her  way. — Goldsmith. 

Amanda  had  fainted  soon  after  Colonel  Belgrave  entered  the 
carriage,  and  she  was  reclining  on  his  bosom  in  a state  ot  insensi- 


258 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


bility  when  Lord  Mortimer  passed.  In  this  situation  she  contim 
ued  till  they  had  gained  a solitary  road,  when  the  carriage  stopped 
and  water,  procured  from  an  adjacent  cottage,  being  sprinkled 
on  her  face,  she  recovered ; but  either  by  arguments  or  actions  she 
was  now  unable  to  oppose  Belgrave.  She  felt  a weakness 
through  her  whole  frame,  which  she  believed  the  forerunner  of 
death,  and  a languor  on  her  mind  that  almost  deprived  it  of  the 
perception  of  misery. 

The  refreshments  offered  to  her  she  could  only  refuse  by  a 
motion  of  her  hand ; and  in  this  manner  they  proceeded  till  about 
nine  o’clock  at  night,  when  they  entered  an  extensive  wood,  in 
the  very  center  of  which  stood  Colonel  Belgrave’s  mansion. 
He  carried  Amanda  into  it  himself,  and  laid  her  upon  a sofa  in  a 
large  parlor.  Some  female  domestics  appeared  with  drops  and 
cordials,  to  try  and  recover  her  from  the  almost  lifeless  state  in 
which  she  lay.  One  of  them  presented  a letter  to  the  colonel, 
which  excited  no  little  perturbation  in  his  mind.  It  came  express 
to  inform  him  that  his  uncle,  whose  estate  and  title  he  was  heir  to, 
lay  at  the  point  of  death,  and  that  his  presence  was  immediately 
required. 

The  colonel  was  not  so  absolutely  engrossed  by  love  as  to  be 
incapable  of  attending  to  his  interest.  An  addition  of  fortune 
was  extremely  agreeable,  as  his  affairs  were  somewhat  deranged : 
and,  as  Amanda  was  not  in  a situation  at  present  to  comply  with 
any  overtures  he  should  make,  his  resolution  was  immediately 
formed  to  set  off  without  delay,  and  against  his  return  he  trusted 
Amanda  would  be  not  only  recovered,  but  willing  to  accede  to  his 
wishes. 

He  dismissed  the  woman  who  had  brought  her  a little  to  herself, 
and  taking  her  hand  informed  her  of  the  painful  necessity  he 
was  under  of  departing  for  a short  time.  He  also  mentioned  his 
hopes,  that  on  his  return  he  should  have  no  obstacle  thrown  in 
the  way  of  his  happiness  by  her.  ‘ You  must  be  sensible,  my 
dear  Amanda,’  said  he  with  coolness,  ‘ that  your  reputation  is 
as  much  gone  as  if  you  had  complied  with  my  wishes;  since  it  is 
sacrificed,  why  not  enjoy  the  advantages  that  may,  that  will  cer- 
tainly, attend  the  reality  of  that  sacrifice?’  ‘Monster!’  cried 
Amanda,  ‘your  arts  may  have  destroyed  my  fame,  but  my  inno- 
cence bids  defiance  to  your  power.’  ‘ Conquer  your  obstinacy, 
Amanda,’  replied  he,  ‘against  I return,  or  I shall  not  promise 
but  what  I may  be  at  last  irritated.  As  you  will  have  no  occasion 
for  money  here,  you  must  excuse  me,  my  dear  creature,  if  I take 
your  purse  into  my  own  keeping.  My  domestics  may  be  faithful, 
when  they  have  no  inducement  to  the  contrary;  but  no  bribery, 
no  corruption,  you  know.’  He  then  very  deliberately  took 
Amanda’s  purse  and  watch  from  her  pocket,  and  deposited  tnem 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


25^ 


in  his  own.  He  had  already  given  directions  to  his  servants  con- 
cerning their  treatment  of  Amanda,  and  now  ordered  them  to 
carry  her  to  a chamber,  and  make  her  take  some  refreshment. 

‘ Reflect,  Amanda,’  said  he,  ere  she  retired,  ‘ on  your  present 
situation,  and  timely  estimate  the  advantages  I offer  to  your  ac- 
ceptance; wealth,  pleasure,  the  attentions  of  a man  who  adores 
you,  are  not  to  be  despised.  Upon  my  soul  it  grieves  me  to  leave 
you,  but  the  joys  of  meeting  will,  1 trust,  repay  the  pangs  oi 
absence.’ 

As  he  spoke,  he  attempted  to  embrace  her,  but  she  faintly 
shrieked,  and  shrunk  from  his  grasp.  He  looked  provoked : but 
as  he  had  no  time  to  lose,  he  reserved  a declaration  of  his  anger 
for  another  opportunity,  and  directly  set  off  for  his  uncle’s. 

Amanda  was  supported  to  a chamber,  and  lay  down  in  her 
clothes  on  a bed.  They  offered  her  bread  and  wine,  but  she  was 
too  sick  to  touch  any.  To- remonstrate  with  the  insolent  looking 
creatures  who  surrounded  her  she  knew  would  be  unavailing,  and 
she  turned  her  face  on  the  pillow  to  stifle  her  sobs,  as  she  believed 
they  would  exult  in  her  distress.  Death  she  thought  approaching, 
and  the  idea  of  being  separated  from  the  dear  objects  who  would 
have  soothed  its  last  pangs  was  dreadful.  Her  father  in  agony  , 
and  Oscar,  her  beloved  brother,  bewailing  her  with  tears  of  sor- 
row, were  the  images  fancy  presented  to  her  view. 

‘ Dear  objects  of  my  love,’  she  softly  exclaimed,  ‘Amanda  shall 
no  more  behold  you,  but  her  last  sigh  will  be  breathed  for  you. 
Ah  ! why,  why,’  she  cried,  ‘did  I suffer  myself  to  be  separated 
from  my  father  ? ’ 

A young  woman  leaned  over  Amanda,  and  surveyed  her  with 
the  most  malignant  scrutiny.  She  was  daughter  to  Belgrave’s 
steward,  and  neither  she  nor  her  father  possessed  sufficient  virtue 
to  make  them  reject  the  offers  Belgrave  made  them  on  her  account. 
His  attachment  to  her  was  violent,  but  transient,  and  in  the 
height  of  it  he  made  her  mistress  of  the  mansion  she  now  occupied, 
which  character  she  maintained  with  tyrannic  sway  over  the  rest 
of  the  domestics.  Belgrave  was  really  ignorant  of  the  violence 
of  her  temper,  and  had  no  idea  she  would  dare  dispute  his  inclina 
tions,  or  disobey  his  orders.  He  believed  she  would  be  subservient 
to  both,  and  from  this  belief  gave  Amanda  particularly  into  her 
charge. 

But  scarcely  had  he  departed,  ere  she  swore,  ‘ that  let  the  con- 
sequence be  what  it  would,  the  vile  wretch  he  had  brought  into 
the  house  to  insult  her  should  never  remain  in  it.  She  shall 
tramp,’  cried  she,  ‘ though  I follow  her  myself  when  he  returns: 
for  such  a little  hussy  shall  never  triumph  over  me.’ 

The  servants,  ignorant  and  timorous,  did  not  attempt  to  oppose 
her. 


260 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


‘Come,  madam/  said  she,  suddenly  seizing  Amanda’s  arm,  and 
pulling  her  from  the  pillow,  ‘ have  done  with  these  languishing 
airs,  and  march.’  ‘ What  do  you  mean?  ’ cried  Amanda,  trembling 
at  her  inflamed  countenance.  ‘ Why,  I mean  you  shall  quit  this 
house  directly;  and  I wonder  Colonel  Belgrave  could  have  the 
assurance  to  bring  such  a creature  as  you  into  it.’  ‘ You  mistake, 
indeed,’  said  Amanda;  ‘treachery,  not  inclination,  brought  me 
into  it,  and  I am  not  what  you  suppose.  If,  as  you  say,  you  will 
allow  me  to  depart,  I shall  ever  regard  you  as  my  friend;  and  in 
every  prayer  I offer  up  to  Heaven  for  myself,  you  shall  be  remem- 
bered.’ ‘ Oh,  dear!  but  you  shall  not  impose  upon  me  so  easily. 
^ Come,  ’ continued  she,  turning  to  a maid,  ‘ and  help  me  to  con- 
duct this  fine  lady  to  the  hall  door.  ’ ‘ Gracious  Heaven ! ’ said 

Amanda,  who  by  this  time  was  taken,  or  rather  dragged  from  the 
bed,  ‘what  are  you  about  doing  with  me?  Though  I rejoice  to 
quit  the  house,  yet  surely,  surely,’  she  cried,  and  her  soul  recoiled 
at  the  idea,  ‘ without  a guide,  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  you  will 
not  turn  me  from  it.’ 

She  then  mentioned  Colonel  Belgrave’s  having  deprived  her 
of  her  purse  and  watch,  and  besought  the  woman,  in  the  most 
pathetic  terms,  to  supply  her  with  a small  sum,  which  she  sol- 
emnly assured  her  should  be  returned  as  soon  as  she  reached  her 
friends : and  ended  with  saying  she  should  depart  with  gratitude 
and  joy  if  she  complied  with  her  request,  and  allowed  someone 
to  guide  her  to  a place  where  she  might  procure  a carriage.’ 

‘ Sucti  madams  as  you,’  replied  the  imperious  woman,  ‘are 
never  at  a loss  for  means  of  procuring  money,  or  a place  to  go  to. 
I see  through  your  art  well  enough ; you  want  me  to  pity  you, 
that  I may  let  you  stay  till  your  colonel  returns.  But  who  would 
be  the  fool  then,  I wonder  ? The  tables,  I warrant,  would  soon  be 
turned  upon  me.  No,  no;  out  you  go  this  moment.’  So  saying, 
she  rudely  seized  Amanda,  and  assisted  by  another  woman,  hur- 
ried her  downstairs,  and  out  of  the  house  directly ; they  carried 
her  to  an  intricate  part  of  wood,  and  then  ran  back,  leaving  the 
helpless  mourner  leaning  against  a tree. 

Amanda  looked  around  her.  Dark  and  awful  were  the  shades 
of  the  wood.  No  light  appeared  but  what  came  from  a few  wan- 
dering stars,  which  only  served  to  render  darkness  visible.  ‘ Have 
mercy  upon  me.  Heaven  I ’ groaned  Amanda,  as  she  felt  herself 
sinking  to  the  earth.  The  cold  acted  as  a kind  of  restorative,  and 
almost  immediately  revived  her.  She  rested  her  head  against  a 
little  bank,  and  as  she  thus  reclined,  tender  sadness  pervaded  her 
soul  at  the  idea  of  her  father’s  sorrow  when  he  heard  of  her  fate. 
‘When  he  hears,’  cried  she,  ‘ that  I was  driven  from  the  house, 
as  unworthy  of  pity  or  protection  from  any  being;  that  his 
Amauda,  whom  he  cherished  in  his  bosom,  as  the  darling  of  his 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


261 


age,  was  denied  the  pity  he  would  have  shown  the  greatest  wretch 
that  crawls  upon  the  earth,  and  that  she  perished  without  shelter, 
it  will  break  his  heart  entirely.  Poor  Oscar  too — alas!  I shall  be 
a source  of  wretchedness  to  both.  Will  Lord  Mortimer  lament 
when  he  hears  of  my  fate  ? Alas!  I cannot  believe  that  he  will. 
He  that  could  leave  me  in  the  arms  of  insensibility,  and  so  readily 
believe  ill  of  me,  must  have  a heart  steeled  against  compassion 
for  my  sufferings.  But  my  unhappy  father  and  brother  will 
never  doubt  my  innocence,  and  by  them  I shall  be  tenderly  and 
truly  mourned.’ 

The  idea  of  their  sufferings  at  last  recalled  her  wandering 
thoughts,  and  pity  for  those  sufferings  made  her  endeavor  to 
support  her  own,  that  she  might  be  able  to  make  some  efforts 
for  preserving  a life  so  precious  to  them.  Besides,  as  she  re- 
flected, she  could  not  but  attribute  her  expulsion  from  the  house 
of  infamy  to  the  immediate  interposition  of  Providence  in  her 
favor  : ana  while  her  heart  swelled  with  gratitude  at  the  idea,  her 
fortitude  gradually  returned.  She  arose,  but  the  vigor  of  her 
nerves  was  not  equal  to  the  ardor  of  her  intentions.  She  walked 
on,  and  as  she  proceeded,  the  gloom  grew  more  profound  ; the 
paths  were  intricate,  and  her  progress  was  often  impeded  by  the 
roots  of  trees,  and  the  branches  that  grew  about  them.  After 
wandering  about  a considerable  time,  she  at  last  began  to  think 
that,  instead  of  gaining  the  skirts,  she  had  penetrated  into  the 
very  center  of  the  wood,  and  that  to  quit  it  till  morning  would  be 
impossible.  Yielding  to  this  idea,  or  rather  to  her  excessive  weari- 
ness, she  was  seeking  for  a place  to  sit  down  on,  when  a faint  light 
glimmered  before  her.  She  instantly  darted  through  the  path 
from  whence  it  gleamed,  and  found  herself  at  the  extremity  of 
the  wood,  and  that  the  light  proceeded  from  a small  hamlet 
contiguous  to  it.  Thither  she  walked,  as  fast  as  her  trembling 
limbs  would  carry  her.  A profound  stillness  reigned  around, 
only  interrupted  by  the  hoarse  and  hollow  barking  of  some  distant 
dogs,  which,  in  such  an  hour,  had  something  particularly  solemn 
in  it.  The  stillness,  and  sudden  disappearance  of  lights  from 
various  windows,  convinced  Amanda  that  every  cottage  was 
closed  for  the  night  ; ‘and  were  they  open, ’said  she, ‘I  perhaps 
should  be  denied  access  to  any,  deprived  as  I am  of  the  means  of 
rewarding  kindness.’  She  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  passing  a 
night  unsheltered.  ‘ It  is  now,  indeed,’  said  she,  ‘ I really  know 
what  it  is  to  feel  for  the  houseless  children  of  want.’  She 
moved  softly  along.  The  echo  of  her  own  steps  alarmed  her. 
She  had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  the  hamlet  when,  before  a 
neat  cottage,  divided  from  the  others  by  a clump  of  old  trees,  she 
saw  a venerable  man,  who  might  well  have  passed  for  an  ancient 
hermit.  His  gray  locks  thinly  shaded  his  forehead  ; an  expression 


262 


THE  CHILDSEX  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


of  deep  and  pensive  thought  was  visible  in  his  countenance  ; his 
arms  were  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  were  raised  with  a 
tender  melancholy  to  heaven,  as  if  that  heaven  he  contemplated 
was  now  the  abode  of  some  kindred  and  lamented  spirit.  Sure 
such  a being,  thought  she,  will  pity  me.  She  approached  him — 
stood  close  to  him,  yet  was  unnoticed.  Thrice  she  attempted  to 
speak,  and  thrice  her  heart  failed  her.  At  last  she  summoned  all 

her  courage  to  her  aid,  and  faintly  articulated  : ‘ Pity ’ She 

could  add  no  more,  but  fainted  at  his  feet.  The  stranger’s  mind 
was  fraught  with  all  the  benevolence  his  countenance  depictured. 
The  transient  glance  he  had  caught  of  Amanda  interested  every 
tender  feeling.  He  called  to  his  servant,  an  elderly  woman,  his 
only  companion  in  the  cottage,  to  assist  him  in  conveying  her  in. 
This  woman’s  heart  was  as  tender  as  her  master  s,  and  the  youth, 
the  beauty,  and  forlorn  situation  of  Amanda,  equally  excited  their 
wonder  and  pity.  It  was  many  minutes  ere  she  open  >d  her  eyes, 
and  when  she  did,  her  senses  were  quite  bewildered.  ‘And  my 
father  ! alas  ! my  father,  I shall  never  more  behold  him,’  was  all 
she  could  articulate. 

She  was  supported  to  a small  chamber  ; the  old  woman  un- 
dressed her,  put  her  to  bed,  and  sat  up  with  her  the  remainder  of 
the  night.  Amanda  often  started  ; she  raved  continually  of 
Pelgrave,  the  author  of  her  woes,  and  betrayed  the  strongest 
horror.  ‘ The  wound  he  had  inflicted  on  her  heart,’  she  said,  ‘ the 
hand  of  death  could  only  heal.’  She  mentioned  the  cruelty  of 
the  marchioness,  called  upon  her  father  to  save  her  from  destruc- 
tion, and  reproached  Mortimer  for  aiding  to  overwhelm  her  in 
disgrace.  She  continued  in  this  situation  three  days,  during 
which  the  old  man  and  his  faithful  servant  watched  her  with 
unremitted  attention.  A neighboring  apothecary  was  sum- 
moned to  her  aid,  and  a girl  from  one  of  the  cottages  procured  to 
sit  up  with  her  at  night.  The  old  man  frequently  knelt  by  the 
bedside,  watching  With  anxiety  for  a favorable  symptom.  Her 
incoherent  expressions  pierced  him  to  the  heart  : he  felt,  from 
mournful  sympathy,  for  the  father  she  so  pathetically  mentioned, 
and  invoked  Heaven  to  restore  her  to  him. 

The  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  Amanda,  after  a long  slumber, 
awoke,  perfectly  restored  to  her  senses  ; it  was  many  minutes, 
however,  after  her  awaking,  ere  she  recollected  all  the  circum- 
stances that  had  caused  her  present  situation.  She  at  last 
opened  the  curtain  and  perceived  the  old  woman,  whom  we 
shall  hereafter  call  Eleanor,  seated  by  the  bedside. 

‘I  fear,’ said  she,  with  a languid  • smile,  ‘I  have  been  the 
occasion  of  a great  deal  of  trouble.’  ‘No,  no,’  replied  the  kind 
Eleanor,  delighted  to  hear  her  speak  so  calmly,  and  drawing  back 
a little  of  the  curtain  at  the  same  time  to  observe  her  looks. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


263 


Amanda  inquired  how  long  she  had  been  ill.  Eleanor  m- 
formed  her,  and  added,  ‘Heaven,  my  dear  child,  was  kind  to  you 
in  throwing  you  in  my  master’s  way,  who  delights  in  befriend- 
ing the  helpless.  ’ ‘ Heaven  will  reward  him,  ’ exclaimed  Amanda. 

The  chamber  was  gloomy  ; she  requested  one  of  the  shutters 
might  be  opened.  Eleanor  complied  with  her  desire,  and  a ray  of 
the  declining  sun  darting  through  the  casement  cheered  her 
pensive  heart.  She  perfectly  remembered  the  venerable  figure 
she  had  beheld  on  the  threshold  of  the  cottage,  and  was  impatient 
to  express  her  gratitude  to  him.  The  next  day,  she  trusted, 
would  give  her  an  opportunity  of  doing  so,  as  she  then  resolved, 
if  possible,  to  rise.  The  wish  of  her  soul  was  to  be  with  her  father 
ere  he  could  receive  any  intimation  of  what  had  happened.  She 
resolved  to  communicate  to  her  benevolent  host  the  incidents 
which  had  placed  her  in  such  a situation  ; and  she  flattered  her- 
self, on  hearing  them,  he  would  accommodate  her  with  the  means 
•of  returning  to  Ireland  ; if  unable  (unwilling  she  could  not  think 
she  should  find  him)  to  do  this,  she  then  intended  writing  to  her 
lather.  This  measure,  however,  she  fervently  trusted  she  should 
have  no  occasion  to  take,  as  she  well  knew  the  shock  such  a letter 
would  give  him. 

Contrary  to  the  inclination  of  Eleanor,  she  rose  the  next  day, 
and,  as  soon  as  she  was  dressed,  sent  to  request  Mr.  Howel’s 
company.  Eleanor  had  informed  her  of  her  master’s  name.  The 
chamber  was  on  a ground  floor  ; before  the  windows  were  a row 
of  neat  white  cottages,  and  behind  them  rose  a range  of  lofty 
hills,  covered  to  the  very  summit  with  trees,  now  just  bursting 
into  verdure.  Before  the  cottage  ran  a clear  murmuring  rivulet, 
at  which  some  young  girls  were  washing  clothes,  while  others 
spread  them  upon  hedges,  and  all  beguiled  their  labor  with  sing- 
ing, chatting,  and  laughing  together. 

‘ Ah  ! happy  creatures  !’  cried  Amanda,  ‘screened  by  your 
native  hills,  you  know  nothing  of  the  vices  or  miseries  of  the  great 
world  : no  snares  lurk  beneath  the  flowery  paths  you  tread,  to 
wring  your  hearts  with  anguish,  and  nip  the  early  blossoms  of 
your  youth.’ 

The  old  man  appeared,  and  interrupted  her  meditations. 
When  he  beheld  the  pale  face  of  Anianda,  beaming  with  angelic 
sweetness  ; when  he  saw  her  emaciated  hand  extended  toward 
him,  while  her  soft  voice  uttered  her  grateful  acknowledgments, 
his  emotions  could  not  be  suppressed  : he  pressed  her  hand  bet- 
ween his  ; tears  rolled  down  the  furrows  of  his  face,  and  he  ex- 
claimed, ‘ I thank  the  Almighty  for  reviving  this  sweet 
flower.’ 

A deep  sob  from  Amanda  proved  how  much  he  had  affected 
her  feelings. 


264 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


He  was  alarmed,  and  hastily  endeavored  to  compose  his  own, 
out  of  regard  to  hers. 

When  a little  composed,  with  grateful  sweetness  she  continued 
to  thank  him  for  his  kindness.  ‘Pity,’ said  she,  ‘is  a sweet 
emotion  to  excite  ; yet  from  you,  without  esteem,  it  would  be 
humiliating  ; and  esteem  I cannot  flatter  myself  with  obtaining, 
till  I have  accounted  for  being  a wretched  wanderer,’  She  then 
gave  a brief  account  of  her  father  and  the  events  of  her  life. 

‘ Ah  ! my  dear,’^cried  the  old  man,  as  she  flnished  her  narrative, 
‘you  have  reason,  indeed,  to  regret  your  knowledge  of  Belgrave  ; 
but  the  sorrow  he  has  occasioned  you,  I believe  and  trust,  will  be 
but  transient.  That  which  he  has  given  me,  will  be  lasting  as  my 
life.  You  look  astonished.  Alas  ! but  for  him,  I might  now 
have  been  blessed  with  a daughter  as  lovely  and  as  amiable  as 
Fitzalan’s.  I see  you  are  too  delicate  to  express  the  curiosity  my 
words  have  inspired,  but  I shall  not  hesitate  to  gratify  it.  My 
relation  will  draw  the  tear  of  pity  from  your  eye : but  the  sorrows 
of  others  often  reconcile  us  to  our  own.’ 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

And  oft  as  ease  and  health  retire, 

To  breezy  lawn  or  forest  deep, 

The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening  spire, 

And  ’mid  the  vaiied  landscape  weep  ; 

But  thou  who  own’st  that  earthy  bed. 

Ah  I what  will  every  dirge  avail  ? 

—Collins’s  Ode  on  Thomson. 

Many  years  are  now  elapsed  since  I took  up  my  residence 
5ji  this  sequestered  hamlet.  I retired  to  it  in  distaste  with  a world 
whose  vices  had  robbed  me  of  the  dearest  treasure  of  my  heart. 
Two  children  cheered  my  solitude,  and  in  training  them  up  to 
virtue,  I lost  the  remembrance  of  half  my  cares.  My  son,  when 
qualified,  was  sent  to  Oxford,  as  a friend  had  promised  to  provide 
for  him  in  the  church  ; but  my  daughter  was  destined  to  retire- 
ment, not  only  from  the  narrowness  of  my  income,  but  from  a 
thorough  conviction  it  was  best  calculated  to  insure  her  felicity. 
Juliana  was  the  child  of  innocence  and  content.  She  knew  of  no 
greater  happiness  than  that  of  promoting  mine,  of  no  pleasures 
but  what  the  hamlet  could  afford,  and  was  one  of  the  gayest,  as 
well  as  the  loveliest,  of  its  daughters.  One  fatal  evening  I suf- 
fered her  to  go,  with  some  of  her  young  companions,  to  a rustic 
ball,  given  by  the  parents  of  Belgrave  to  their  tenants,  on  coming 
down  to  Woodhouse,  from  which  they  had  been  long  absent. 
The  graces  of  my  child  immediately  attracted  the  notice  of  their 
son.  Though  young  in  years,  he  was  already  a professed  libertine, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


265 


The  conduct  of  his  father  had  set  him  an  example  of  dissipation 
which  the  volatility  of  his  own  disposition  too  readily  inclined 
him  to  follow.  His  heart  immediately  conceived  the  basest 
schemes  against  Juliana,  which  the  obscurity  of  her  situation 
prompted  him  to  think  might  readily  be  accomplished.  From 
this  period  he  took  every  opportunity  of  throwing  himself  in  her 
way.  My  suspicions,  or  rather  my  fears,  were  soon  excited  ; for 
I knew  not  then  the  real  depravity  of  Belgrave  ; but  I knew  that 
an  attachment  between  him  and  my  daughter  would  prove  a 
source  of  uneasiness  to  both,  from  the  disparity  fortune  had 
placed  between  them.  My  task  in  convincing  Juliana  of  the 
impropriety  of  encouraging  such  an  attachment  was  not  a difficult 
one.  But,  alas  ! I saw  the  conviction  was  attended  with  a pang 
of  anguish,  which  pierced  me  to  the  soul. 

Belgrave,  from  the  assumed  softness  and  delicacy  of  his  man- 
ners, had  made  an  impression  on  her  heart  which  was  not  to  be 
erased.  Every  effort,  however,  which  prudence  could  suggest, 
she  resolved  to  make,  and,  in  compliance  with  my  wishes,  avoided 
Belgrave.  This  conduct  soon  convinced  him  it  would  be  a diffi- 
cult matter  to  lull  my  caution,  or  betray  her  innocence.  And 
finding  all  his  attempts  to  see,  or  convey  a letter  to  her  ineffectual, 
he  departed  with  his  parents  from  Woodhouse. 

Juliana  heard  of  his  departure  with  a forced  smile  ; but  a start- 
ing tear,  and  a colorless  cheek,  too  clearly  denoted  to  me  the  state 
of  her  mind.  I shall  not  attempt  to  describe  my  sufferings  on 
witnessing  hers.  With  my  pity  was  mixed  a degree  of  veneration 
for  that  virtue  which,  in  so  young  a mind,  could  make  such  ex- 
ertions against  a passion  disapproved  of  by  a parent.  The  even- 
ing of  his  departure,  no  longer  under  any  restraint,  she  walked 
out  alone,  and  instinctively,  perhaps,  took  the  road  to  Woodhouse. 
She  wandered  to  its  deepest  glooms,  and  there  gave  way  to  emo- 
tions which,  from  her  efforts  to  suppress  them,  were  become  al- 
most too  painful  to  support.  The  gloom  of  the  wood  was  height- 
ened by  the  shades  of  evening,  and  a solemn  stillness  reigned 
around,  well  calculated  to  inspire  pensive  tenderness.  She  sighed 
the  name  of  Belgrave  in  tremulous  accents,  and  lamented  their 
ever  having  met.  A sudden  rustling  among  the  trees  startled 
her,  and  the  next  moment  she  beheld  him  at  her  feet,  exclaiming, 
‘We  have  met,  my  Juliana,  never  more  to  part.’ 

Surprise  and  confusion  so  overpowered  her  senses,  as  to  render 
her  for  some  time  unable  to  attend  to  his  raptures.  When  she 
grew  composed,  he  told  her  he  was  returned  to  make  her  honor- 
ably his,  but  to  effect  this  intention  a journey  from  the  hamlet 
was  requisite.  She  turned  pale  at  these  words,  and  declared  she 
never  would  consent  to  a clandestine  measure.  This  declaration 
did  not  discourage  Belgrave  ; he  knew  the  interest  he  had  in  her 


266 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


heart,  and  this  knowledge  gave  an  energy  to  his  arguments^ 
which  gradually  undermined  the  resolution  of  Juliana.  Already, 
he  said,  she  had  made  a sufficient  sacrifice  to  filial  duty  ; surely 
something  was  now  due  to  love  like  his,  which,  on  her  account, 
would  cheerfully  submit  to  innumerable  difficulties.  As  he  was 
under  age,  a journey  to  Scotland  was  unavoidable,  he  said,  and 
he  would  have  made  me  his  confidant  on  the  occasion,  but  that  h6 
feared  my  scrupulous  delicacy  would  have  opposed  his  intentions, 
as  contrary  to  parental  authority.  He  promised  Juliana  to  bring 
her  back  to  the  liamlet  immediately  after  the  ceremony  ; in  short, 
the  plausibility  of  his  arguments,  the  tenderness  of  his  persuasions, 
at  last  produced  the  effect  he  wished,  and  he  received  a promise 
from  her  to  put  herself  under  his  protection  that  very  night. 

But  oh  ! how  impossible  to  describe  my  agonies  the  ensuing 
morning  when,  instead  of  my  child,  I found  a letter  in  her  room 
informing  me  of  her  elopement  ; they  were  such  as  a fond  parent, 
trembling  for  the  fame  and  happiness  of  his  child,  may  conceive. 
My  senses  must  have  sunk  beneath  them  had  they  long  continued  ; 
but  Belgrave,  according  to  his  promise,  hastened  back  my  child  ; 
and  as  I sat  solitary  and  pensive  in  the  apartment  she  so  often  had 
enlivened,  I suddenly  beheld  her  at  my  feet,  supported  by  Bel- 
grave,  as  his  wife.  So  great  a transition  from  despair  to  comfort 
was  almost  too  powerful  for  me  to  support.  I asked  my  heart 
was  its  present  happiness  real  ; I knelt,  I received  my  child  in  my 
arms  : in  those  feeble  arms  I seemed  to  raise  her  with  my  heart 
to  Heaven  in  pious  gratitude  for  her  returning  unsullied.  Yet, 
when  my  first  transports  were  abated,  I could  not  help  regretting 
her  ever  having  consented  to  a clandestine  union.  I entreated 
Belgrave  to  write,  in  the  most  submissive  terms,  to  his  father. 
He  promised  to  comply  with  my  entreaty,  yet  hinted  his  fears 
that  his  compliance  would  be  unattended  with  the  success  I hoped. 
He  requested,  if  this  should  be  the  case,  I would  allow  his  wife  to 
reside  in  the  cottage  till  he  was  of  age.  Oh,  how  pleasant  a re- 
quest to  my  heart  ! a month  passed  away  in  happiness,  only  al- 
loyed by  not  hearing  from  his  father.  At  the  expiration  of  thac 
time  he  declared  he  must  depart,  having  received  orders  to  join 
his  regiment,  but  promised  to  return  as  soon  as  possible  ; he  also 
promised  to  write,  but  a fortnight  elapsed  and  no  letter  arrived. 
Juliana  and  I grew  alarmed,  but  it  was  an  alarm  that  only  pro- 
ceeded from  fears  of  his  being  ill.  We  were  sitting  one  morning  at 
breakfast,  when  the  stopping  of  a carriage  drew  us  from  the  table* 

‘He  is  come!’  said  Juliana,  ‘he  is  come  !’  and  she  flew  to  open 
the  door  ; when,  instead  of  her  expected  Belgrave,  she  beheld  his 
father,  whose  dark  and  haughty  visage  proclaimed  that  he  came 
on  no  charitable  intent.  Alas  I the  occasion  of  his  visit  was  too 
soon  explained  ; he  came  to  have  the  ties  which  bound  his  son  to 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


267 


Juliana  broken.  My  child,  on  hearing  this,  with  firmness  de» 
dared  that  she  was  convinced  any  scheme  his  cruelty  might  de- 
vise to  separate  them,  the  integrity,  as  well  as  the  tenderness  of 
his  son,  would  render  abortive. 

‘Be  not  too  confident  of  that,  young  lady,’  cried  he,  smiling 
maliciously.  He  then  proceeded  to  inform  her  that  Belgrave,  so 
beloved,  and  in  whose  integrity  she  so  much  confided,  had  himself 
authorized  his  intentions,  being  determined  to  avail  himself  of 
non-age,  to  have  the  marriage  broken. 

Juliana  could  hear  no  more  ; she  sunk  fainting  on  the  bosom  of 
her  wretched  father.  Oh,  what  a situation  was  mine,  when,  as  I 
clasped  her  wildly  to  my  heart  and  called  upon  her  to  revive, 
that  heart  whispered  me  it  was  cuelty  to  wish  she  should  ! Alas ! 
too  soon  she  did,  to  a keen  perception  of  misery.  The  marriage 
was  dissolved,  and  health  and  happiness  fied  from  her  together  ; 
yet,  from  compassion  to  me,  I saw  she  struggled  to  support  the 
burden  of  existence.  Every  remedy  which  had  a chance  of  pro- 
longing it  I administered.  But,  alas  ! sorrow  was  rooted  in  her 
heart,  and  it  was  only  its  removal,  which  was  impossible,  that 
could  have  effected  her  recovery.  Oh  ! how’  often  have  I stolen 
from  my  bed  to  the  door  of  her  apartment,  trembling,  lest  I should 
hear  the  last  groan  escape  her  lips  ! How  often  have  I then  heard 
her  deep  convulsive  sobs,  and  reproached  myself  for  selfishness  at 
the  moment  for  wishing  the  continuance  of  her  being,  which  was 
only  wishing  the  continuance  of  her  misery  ! Yes,  I have  then 
said,  ‘ I resign  her,  my  Creator,  unto  thee.  I resign  her  from  a cer- 
tainty, that  only  with  thee  she  can  enjoy  felicity.’  But,  alas  ! in 
a moment,  frail  nature  has  triumphed  over  such  a resignation,  and, 
prostrate  on  the  ground,  I have  implored  Heaven,  either  to  spare 
the  child,  or  take  the  father  along  with  her. 

She  saw  me  unusually  depressed  one  day,  and  proposed  a walk, 
with  a hope  that  any  exertion  from  her  might  recruit  my  spirits. 
But  when  I saw  my  child,  in  the  very  bloom  of  life,  unable  to 
sustain  her  feeble  frame  ; when  I felt  her  leaning  on  my  almost 
nerveless  arm  for  support,  oh  ! how  intolerable  was  the  anguish 
that  rived  my  lieart  ! — in  vain,  by  soft  endearments,  she  strove 
to  mitigate  it.  I averted  my  face  and  wept.  She  motioned  to  go 
toward  Woodhouse  ; we  had  got  within  sight  of  the  wood,  when 
«he  complained  of  fatigue,  and  sat  down.  She  had  not  been  many 
minutes  in  this  situation,  when  she  beheld,  coming  from  the  wood, 
Belgrave,  and  a young  girl  whom  she  knew  to  be  the  steward’s 
daughter.  The  familiar  manner  in  which  they  appeared  con- 
versing left  little  room  to  doubt  of  the  footing  on  which  they  were. 
The  hectic  glow  of  Juliana’s  complexion  gave  place  to  a deadly 
paleness.  She  arose  and  returned  to  the  cottage  with  me  in  silence, 
from  whence,  in  less  than  a week,  she  was  borne  to  her  grave. 


268 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Eight  years,  continued  he,  after  a pause  of  some  minutes, 
have  elapsed  since  her  death,  yet  is  her  worth,  her  beauty,  and 
her  sufferings  still  fresh  in  the  remembrance  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  hamlet.  In  mine,  oh  ! Miss  Fitzalan  ! how  painfully,  how 
pleasingly,  do  they  still  exist  ! No  noisome  weed  is  allowed  to  in- 
termingle in  the  high  grass  which  has  overgrown  her  grave,  at 
the  head  of  which  some  kind  hand  has  planted  a rose-tree,  whose 
roses  blossom,  bloom,  and  die  upon  the  sacred  spot.  My  child  is 
gone  before  me  to  that  earthly  bed,  to  which  I hoped  she  would 
have  smoothed  my  passage.  Every  spot  m and  about  the  cottage 
continually  recall  her  to  my  view.  The  ornaments  of  tliis  little 
room  were  all  the  work  of  that  hand,  long  since  moldered  into 
dust.  In  that  bed — he  stopped,  he  groaned,  and  tears  burst  from 
him — in  that  bed  resumed  he  (in  a few  minutes,  though  with  a 
broken  voice),  she  breathed  her  last  sigh  ; in  that  spot  I knelt  and 
received  the  last  pressure  of  her  clay-cold  lips  ! Of  a calm  night, 
when  all  is  hushed  to  repose,  I love  to  contemplate  that  heaven, 
to  which  I have  given  an  angel — an  angel  to  whom,  I hope,  shortly 
to  be  reunited  ; without  such  a hope,  surely  of  all  men  breathing, 
I should  be  the  most  wretched  ! Oh  ! how  cruel  is  it  then,  in  those, 
who,  by  raising  doubts  of  an  hereafter,  attempt  to  destroy  such 
a hope  ! Ye  sons  of  error,  hide  the  impious  doubts  within  your 
hearts  ; nor  with  wanton  barbarity  endeavor  to  deprive  the  miser- 
able of  their  last  comfort.  When  this  world  presents  nothing  but 
a dreary  prospect,  how  cheering  to  the  afflicted  to  reflect  on  that 
future  one,  where  all  will  be  bright  and  happy.  When  we  mourn 
over  the  lost  friends  of  our  ten  derest  affections,  oh  ! how  consola- 
tory to  think  we  shall  be  reunited  to  them  again  ! How  often  has 
this  thought  suspended  my  tears  and  stopped  my  sighs  ! Inspired 
by  it  with  sudden  joy,  often  have  I risen  from  the  cold  bed  where 
Juliana  lies,  and  exclaimed  : ‘ O death  ! where  is  thy  sting  ! O 
grave  ! where  is  thy  victory  ! ’ both  lost  in  the  certainty  of  again 
beholding  my  child. 

Amanda  shed  tears  of  soft  compassion  for  the  fate  of  Juliana, 
and  the  sorrows  of  her  father,  and  felt,  if  possible,  her  gratitude 
to  Heaven  increased,  for  preserving  her  from  the  snares  of  such  a 
monster  of  deceit  and  barbarity  as  Belgrave. 

Howel  relieved  the  anxiety  she  labored  under  about  the  means; 
of  returning  home,  by  assuring  her  he  would  not  only  supply  her 
with  a sum  sufficient  for  that  purpose,  but  see  her  to  Parkgate 
himself. 

His  name  struck  Amanda — it  recalled  to  remembrance  her 
Welsh  friend.  She  inquired,  and  heard  that  the  young  and  ten- 
der curate  was  indeed  the  son  of  her  benefactor.  ‘ The  softness 
of  Henry’s  disposition,’  said  his  father,  ‘particularly  qualifies 
him  for  the  sacred  function,  which  prevents  his  having  occasion 


THE  CHILDREN^  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


269 


to  mingle  in  the  concerns  of  the  great  world.  He  writes  me  word 
that  he  is  the  simple  shepherd  of  a simple  flock.” 

One  day  was  all  Amanda  would  devote  to  the  purpose  of  recruit 
ing  her  strength.  Nothing  could  prevail  on  xier  longer  to  defer 
her  journey.  A chaise  was  accordingly  procured,  into  which,  at 
the  first  dawn  of  day,  she  and  Howel  stepped,  followed  by  the 
blessings  of  the  affectionate  Eleanor,  who,  from  her  own  ward- 
robe, had  supplied  Amanda  with  a few  necessaries  to  take  along 
with  her.  The  churchyard  lay  about  a quarter  of  a mile  from 
the  hamlet.  It  was  only  divided  from  the  road  by  a low  and 
broken  wall.  Old  trees  shaded  the  grass-grown  grave,  and  gave 
a kind  of  solemn  gloominess  to  the  place. 

‘See,’  said  Howel,  suddenly  taking  Amanda’s  hand,  and  letting 
down  the  glass,  ‘ see  the  bed  where  Juliana  reposes.’ 

The  grave  was  distinguished  by  the  rose-tree  at  its  head.  The 
morning  breeze  gently  agitated  the  high  and  luxuriant  grass  which 
covered  it.  Amanda  gazed  on  it  with  inexpressible  sadness,  but 
the  emotions  it  excited  in  her  breast  she  endeavored  to  check,  in 
pity  to  the  wretched  father,  who  exclaimed,  while  tears  trickled 
down  his  pale  and  furrowed  cheeks,  ‘ There  lies  my  treasure.’ 

She  tried  to  divert  him  from  his  sorrows  by  talking  of  his  son. 
She  described  his  little  residence,  which  he  had  never  seen.  Thus, 
by  recalling  to  his  recollection  the  blessings  he  yet  possessed, 
checking  his  anguish  for  those  he  had  lost. 

The  weakness  of  Amanda  would  not  allow  them  to  travel  ex- 
peditiously. They  slept  one  night  on  the  road,  and  the  next  day, 
to  her  great  joy,  arrived  at  Parkgate,  as  she  had  all  along  dreaded 
a pursuit  from  Belgrave.  A packet  was  to  sail  about  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  She  partook  of  a slight  repast  with  her  benevo- 
lent friend,  who  attended  her  to  the  boat,  and  with  starting  tears 
gave  and  received  an  adieu.  She  promised  to  write  as  soon  as  she 
reached  home,  and  assured  him  his  kindness  would  never  be  ob- 
literated from  her  heart.  He  watched  her  till  she  entered  the  ship, 
then  returned  to  the  inn,  and  immediately  set  off  for  the  hamlet, 
with  a mind  somewhat  cheered  by  the  consciousness  of  having 
served  a fellow-creature. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathinp:  morn  ; 

The  swallow  twittering  from  its  straw  built  shed ; 

The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  him  from  his  lowly  bed.— Grav. 

The  weakness  which  Amanda  felt  in  consequence  of  her  late  ill- 
ness, and  the  excessive  sickness  she  always  suffered  at  sea,  made 
her  retire  to  bed  immediately  on  entering  the  packet,  where  she 


210 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


continued  till  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  when,  about  live 
o’clock,  she  was  landed  at  the  marine  hotel.  She  directly  re- 
quested the  waiter  to  procure  her  a messenger  to  go  into  town, 
which  being  done,  she  sent  to  engage  a place  in  the  northern  mail- 
coach,  that  went  within  a few  miles  of  Castle  Carberry.  If  a place 
could  not  be  procured,  she  ordered  a chaise  might  be  hired,  that 
would  immediately  set  out  with  her,  as  the  nights  were  moon- 
light ; but  to  her  great  joy  the  man  speedily  returned  and  in- 
formed her  he  had  secured  a seat  in  the  coach,  which  she  thought 
a much  safer  mode  of  traveling  for  her,  than  in  a hired  carriage 
without  any  attendant.  She  took  some  slight  refreshment,  and 
then  proceeded  to  the  mail  hotel,  from  whence,  at  eleven  o’clock, 
she  set  out  in  company  with  an  old  gentleman,  who  very  com- 
posedly put  on  a large  woolen  nightcap,  buttoned  up  his  great- 
coat, and  fell  into  a profound  sleep.  He  was,  perhaps,  just  such 
a kind  of  companion  as  Amanda  desired,  as  he  neither  teased  her 
with  insipid  conversation  or  impertinent  questions,  but  left  her 
undisturl^d  to  indulge  her  meditations  during  the  journey.  The 
second  evening,  about  eight  o’clock,  she  arrived  at  the  nearest 
town  to  Castle  Carberry,  for  which  she  directly  procured  a chaise 
and  set  off.  Her  spirits  were  painfully  agitated.  She  dreaded  the 
shock  her  father  would  receive  from  hearing  of  her  sufferings, 
which  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceal  from  him.  She  trembled 
at  what  they  would  both  feel  on  the  approaching  interview. 
Sometimes  she  feared  he  had  already  heard  of  her  distress,  and  a 
gloomy  presage  rose  in  her  mind  of  the  anguish  she  should  find 
him  in,  on  that  account.  Yet  again,  when  she  reflected  on  the 
fortitude  he  had  hitherto  displayed  in  his  trials,  under  the  present, 
she  trusted,  he  would  not  lose  it ; and  that  he  would  not  only  sup- 
port himself,  but  her,  and  bind  up  those  wounds  in  her  heart  which 
perfidy,  cruelty,  and  ingratitude  had  made.  And  oh  ! thought 
she  to  herself,  when  I find  myself  again  in  his  arms,  no  tempta- 
tion shall  allure  me  from  them — allure  me  into  a world  where  my 
peace  and  fame  have  already  suffered  such  a wreck.  Thus,  alter- 
nately fluctuating  between  hope  and  fear,  Amanda  pursued  the 
road  to  Castle  Carberry  ; but  the  latter  sensation  was  predomi- 
nant in  her  mind. 

The  uncommon  gloominess  of  the  evening  added  to  her  dejec- 
tion— the  dark  and  lowering  clouds  threatened  a violent  storm — 
already  a shower  of  sleet  and  rain  was  falling,  and  everything 
looked  cold  and  cheerless.  Amanda  thought  the  cabins  infinitely 
more  wretched  than  when  she  had  first  seen  them.  Many  of  their 
miserable  inhabitants  were  now  gathering  their  little  flocks  to- 
gether, and  driving  them  under  shelter  from  the  coming  storm. 
The  laborers  were  seen  hastening  to  their  respective  homes,  while 
the  plowboy,  with  a low  and  melancholy  whistle,  drove  his 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


271 


slow  and  wearied  team  along.  The  sea  looked  rough  and  black, 
and  as  Amanda  drew  nearer  to  it,  she  heard  it  breaking  with  fury 
against  the  rocks.  She  felt  herself  extremely  ill.  She  had  left  the 
hamlet  ere  her  fever  was  subdued,  and  fatigue,  joined  to  want  of 
rest,  now  brought  it  back  with  all  its  former  violence.  She 
longed  for  rest  and  quiet,  and  trusted  and  believed  these  would 
conquer  her  malady.  ^ 

The  chaise  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  lawn,  as  she  wished 
to  have  her  father  prepared  for  her  arrival  by  one  of  the  ser-  j 
vants.  On  alighting  from  it,  it  returned  to  town,  and  she  struck  i 
into  the  grove,  and  by  a winding  path  reached  the  castle.  Her  4 
limbs  trembled,  and  she  knocked  with  an  unsteady  hand  at  the 
door.  The  sound  was  awfully  reverberated  through  the  build- 
ing. Some  minutes  elapsed  and  no  being  appeared,  neither  could 
she  perceive  a ray  of  light  from  any  of  the  windows.  The  wind 
blew  the  rain  directly  in  her  face,  and  her  weakness  increased,  so 
that  she  could  scarcely  stand.  She  recollected  a small  door  at 
the  back  of  the  castle,  which  led  to  the  apartments  appropriated  to 
the  domestics.  She  walked  feebly  to  this,  to  try  and  gain  admit- 
tance, and  found  it  open.  She  proceeded  through  a long  dark 
passage,  on  each  side  of  which  were  small  rooms,  till  she  came  to 
the  kitchen.  Here  she  found  the  old  woman  sitting  (to  whom  the 
care  of  the  castle  was  usually  consigned),  before  a large  turf  fire. 
On  hearing  a footstep,  she  looked  behind,  and  when  she  saw 
Amanda,  started,  screamed,  and  betrayed  symptoms  of  the  utmost 
terror. 

‘ Are  you  frightened  at  seeing  me,  my  good  Kate  ! ’ cried  Aman- 
da. ‘ Oh,  holy  Virgin  ! ’ replied  Kate,  crossing  her  breast,  ‘ one 
could  not  help  being  frightened,  to  have  a body  steal  unawares 
upon  them.’ 

‘ My  father  is  well,  I hope  ? ’ said  Amanda. 

* Alack-a-day,’  cried  Kate,  Hhe  poor  dear  captain  has  gone 
through  a sea  of  troubles  since  you  went  away.’  ‘ Is  he  ill  ? ’ ex- 
claimed Amanda.  ‘ 111,  ay,  and  the  Lord  knows  he  has  reason 
enough  to  be  ill.  But,  my  dear  jewel,  do  you  know  nothing  at 
all  of  what  has  happened  at  the  castle  since  you  went  away  ? ’ 
^No,  nothing  in  the  world.’  ‘ Heaven  help  you,  then,’  said  Kate  ; 

‘ but,  my  dear  soul,  sit  down  upon  this  little  stool,  and  warm  your- 
self before  the  fire,  for  you  look  pale  and  cold,  and  I will  tell  you 
all  about  it.  You  must  know,  about  three  weeks  ago,  my  John- 
aten  brought  the  captain  a letter  from  the  post  office  ; he  knew  by 
the  mark  it  was  a letter  from  England,  and  so,  when  he  comes 
into  the  kitchen  to  me,  “Katie,”  says  he,  “the  captain  has  got 
something  now  to  cheer  his  spirits,  for  he  has  heard  from  miss,  I 
am  sure.  ” So,  to  be  sure,  I said  I was  glad  of  it,  for,  you  must  know, 
my  dear,  he  was  low  in  spirits,  and  peaking,  as  one  may  say,  iog 


272 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


a few  days  before.  Well,  it  was  always  my  custom,  when  he  ^ot 
a letter  from  England,  to  go  to  him  as  soon  as  I thought  he  had 
read  it,  and  ask  about  you  ; so  I put  on  a clean  apron,  and  up  I 
goes  to  the  parlor,  and  I opened  the  door,  and  walked  in.  “ Well, 
sir,”  says  I,  “ I hope  there  is  good  news  from  miss  ? ” 

‘ The  captain  was  sitting  with  the  letter  open  before  him  on  a 
table  ; he  had  a handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  but  when  I spoke  he 
took  it  down,  and  I saw  his  face,  which  generally  looked  so  pale, 
now  quite  flushed. 

‘ “ This  letter,  my  good  Kate,”  says  he,  “is  not  from  my  daugh- 
ter, but  I am  glad  you  are  come,  for  I wanted  to  speak  to  you.  I 
am  going  to  leave  the  castle,  and  I want  you  to  look  over  all  the 
things,  and  see  they  are  in  the  same  state  as  when  I came  to  it.  I 
shall  then  settle  with  the  servants  I hired,  and  discharge  them.” 
I was  struck  all  of  a heap.  ‘ ‘ The  Lord  forbid  you  should  be  going 
to  leave  us,  sir,  ” says  I. 

‘The  captain  got  up— he  walked  to  the  window — he  sighed 
heavily,  and  I saw  a tear  upon  his  cheek.  He  spoke  to  me  again, 
and  begged  I would  do  as  he  had  desired  me.  So,  with  a heavy 
heart,  I went  and  told  my  Johnaten  the  sad  tidings,  who  was  as 
sorry  as  myself,  for  he  loved  the  captain  dearly,  not  only  from  his 
being  so  mild  a gentleman,  but  because  he  was  a soldier,  as  he  him- 
self had  been  in  his  youth — and  a soldier  has  always  a love  for  one 
of  his  cloth.  And  Johnaten  had  often  said  he  knew  the  captain  in 
America,  and  that  he  was  a brave  officer  and  a real  gentleman. 

‘Well,  the  captain  came  out  to  us,  and  said  he  w’as  to  be  Lord 
Cherbury’s  agent  no  longer.  And  being  a good  penman,  he  set- 
tled all  his  own  accounts  and  the  servants  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
and  discharged  them,  giving  them  both  characters,  which  I war- 
rant will  soon  get  them  good  places  again.  Well,  he  said  he  must 
set  off  for  England  the  next  day.  So  everything  was  got  ready  ; 
but  in  the  middle  of  the  night  he  was  seized  with  spasms  in  his 
stomach.  He  thought  himself  dying,  and  at  last  rung  the  bell  ; 
and  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  my  J ohnaten  heard  it,  and  went 
up  to  him  directly.  Had  he  been  without  relief  much  longer,  I 
" think  he  would  have  died.  Johnaten  called  me  up.  I had  a choice 
bottle  of  old  brandy  lying  by  me,  so  I soon  blew  up  a fire,  and  heat- 
ing a cup  of  it,  gave  it  to  him  directly.  He  grew  a little  easier,  but 
was  too  bad  in  the  morning  to  think  of  going  on  his  journey,  which 
grieved  him  sadly.  He  got  up,  however,  and  wrote  a large  packet, 
which  he  sent  by  Johnaten  to  the  post  office  ; packed  up  some 
things  in  a trunk,  and  put  his  seal  upon  his  desk.  He  said  he 
would  not  stay  in  the  castle  on  any  account,  so  he  went  out  as  soon 
as  Johnaten  came  back  from  the  post  office,  leaning  upon  his  arm, 
and  got  a little  lodging  at  Thady  Byrne’s  cabin.’  ‘ Mer(Sful 
Heaven  I ’ exclaimed  the  agonized  and  almost  fainting  Amanda 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


273 


* support  and  strengthen  me  in  this  trying  hour  ! enable  me  to 
comfort  my  unfortunate  father  ; preserve  me  from  sinking,  that 
I may  endeavor  to  assist  him.’  Tears  accompanied  this  fervent 
ejaculation,  and  her  voice  was  lost  in  sobs. 

‘ Alack-a-day,  ’ said  the  good-natured  Kate,  ‘ now  don’t  take  it 
so  sadly  to  heart,  my  jewel  ; all  is  not  lost  that  is  in  danger,  and 
there  is  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught  : and  what 
though  this  is  a stormy  night,  to-morrow  may  be  a fine  day. 
Why,  the  very  first  sight  of  you  will  do  the  captain  good.  Come, 
cheer  up  ; I will  give  you  some  nice  hot  potatoes  for  your  supper, 
for  you  see  the  pot  is  just  boiling,  and  some  fresh  churned  butter- 
milk ; and  by  the  time  you  have  eaten  it,  Johnaten  perhaps  may 
come  back— he  is  gone  to  town  to  get  some  beef  for  our  Sunday 
dinner — and  then  I will  go  with  you  to  Thady’s  myself.’ 

‘No,  no,’  cried  Amanda,  ‘every  minute  I now  stay  from  mj 
father  seems  an  age.  Too  long  has  he  been  neglected — too  long 
without  a friend  to  soothe  or  attend  him.  Oh  grant,  gracious 
Heaven  ! grant,’  raising  her  clasped  hands,  ‘that  I may  not  have 
ret’:rned  too  late  to  be  of  use  to  him  ! ’ 

Kate  pressed  her  to  stay  for  Johnaten’s  return  ; but  the  agony 
of  suspense  she  endured  till  she  saw  her  father,  made  her  regard- 
less of  walking  alone,  though  the  hour  was  late,  dark,  and  tempes- 
tuous. Kate,  finding  her  entreaties  vain,  attended  her  to  the  door, 
and  assured  her,  if  Johnaten  returned  soon,  she  would  go  over 
herself  to  the  cabin,  and  see  if  she  could  do  anything  for  her, 
Amanda  pressed  her  hand,  but  was  unable  to  speak.  Ill,  weak, 
and  dispirited,  she  had  fiattered  herself,  on  returning  to  her  father, 
she  would  receive  relief,  support,  and  consolation  ; instead  oi 
which,  heart-broken  as  she  was,  she  now  found  she  must  give,  oi 
at  least  attempt  giving  them  herself.  She  had  before  experienced 
distress,  but  the  actual  pressure  of  poverty  she  had  never  yet  felt. 
Heretofore  she  had  always  a comfortable  asylum  to  repair  to,  but 
now  she  not  only  found  herself  deprived  of  that,  but  of  all  means 
of  procuring  one,  or  even  the  necessaries  of  life.  But  if  she 
mourned  for  herself,  how  much  more  severely  did  she  mourn  for 
her  adored  father  ! Could  she  have  procured  him  comfort,  could 
she  in  any  degree  have  alleviated  his  situation,  the  horrors  of  her 
own  would  have  been  lessened  ; but  of  this  she  had  not  the  slightest 
means  or  prospect.  Her  father,  she  knew,  possessed  the  agency 
too  short  a time  to  be  enabled  to  save  any  money,  particular!}^  as 
he  was  indebted  to  Lord  Cherbury  ere  he  obtained  it.  She  knew 
of  no  being  to  whom  she  could  apply  in  his  behalf.  Lord  Cher- 
bury was  the  only  pei’son  on  whom  he  depended  in  his  former  mis- 
fortunes for  relief.  His  friendship,  it  was  evident,  by  depriving 
her  father  of  the  agency,  was  totally  lost  ; and  to  the  disconsolate 
Amanda  no  way  appeared  of  escaping  ‘ want,  worldly  want,  that 


274 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY* 


hungry  meager  fiend,  who  was  already  close  at  their  heels,  and 
followed  them  in  view.  ’ 

The  violence  of  the  storm  had  increased,  but  it  was  slight  in 
comparison  of  that  which  agitated  the  bosom  of  Amanda.  The 
waves  dashed  with  a dreadful  noise  against  the  rocks,  and  the 
angry  spirit  of  the  waters  roared.  The  rain  fell  hea\rily,  and  soon 
soaked  through  the  thin  clothing  of  Amanda.  She  had  about  half 
a mile  to  walk,  through  a rugged  road,  bounded  on  one  side  by 
rocks,  and  on  the  other  by  wild  and  dreary  fields.  She  knew  the 
people  with  whom  her  father  lodged  ; they  were  of  the  lowest 
order,  and,  on  her  first  arrival  at  Castle  Carberry,  in  extreme  dis- 
tress, from  which  she  had  relieved  them.  She  recollected  their 
cabin  was  more  decent  than  many  others  she  had  seen,  yet  still  a 
most  miserable  dwelling.  Wretched  as  it  was,  she  was  glad  when 
she  reached  it,  for  the  violence  of  the  storm,  and  the  loneliness  of 
the  road,  had  terrified  her.  The  cabin  was  but  a few  yards  from 
the  beach.  There  were  two  windows  in  front.  On  one  side  a 
pile  of  turf,  and  on  the  other  a shed  for  the  pigs,  in  which  they 
now  lay  grunting.  The  shutters  were  fastened  on  the  windows, 
to  prevent  their  being  shaken  by  the  wind  ; but  through  the 
crevices  Amanda  saw  a light,  which  convinced  her  the  inhabitants 
were  not  yet  retired  for  repose.  She  feared  her  suddenly  appear- 
ing beforp  her  father,  in  his  present  weak  state,  might  have  a 
dangerous  effect  upon  him,  and  she  stood  before  the  cabin,  con- 
sidering how  she  should  have  her  arrival  broke  to  him.  She  at 
last  tapped  gently  at  the  door,  and  then  retreated  a few  steps  from 
it,  shivering  with  the  wet  and  cold.  In  the  beautiful  language  of 
Solomon,  she  might  have  said,  ‘ Her  head  was  filled  with  dew,  and 
her  locks  with  the  drops  of  the  night.  ’ As  she  expected,  the  door 
was  almost  instantly  opened.  A boy  appeared,  whom  she  knew 
to  be  the  son  of  the  poor  people.  She  held  up  her  handkerchief, 
and  beckoned  him  to  her.  He  hesitated,  as  if  afraid  to  advance, 
till  she  called  him  softly  by  his  name.  This  assured  him.  He 
approached  and  expressed  astonishment  at  finding  she  was  the 
person  who  called  him.  She  inquired  for  her  father,  and  heard  he 
was  ill,  and  then  asleep.  She  desired  the  boy  to  enter  the  cabin 
before  her,  and  caution  his  parents  against  making  any  noise  that 
might  disturb  him.  He  obeyed  her,  and  she  followed  him. 

She  found  the  father  of  the  family  blowing  a turf  fire,  to  hasten 
the  boiling  of  a large  pot  of  potatoes.  Three  ragged  children 
were  sitting  before  it,  watching  impatiently  for  their  supper. 
Their  mother  was  spinning,  and  their  old  grandmother  making 
bread.  The  place  was  small  and  crowded.  Half  the  family  slept 
below,  and  the  other  half  upon  a loft,  to  which  they  ascended  by 
a ladder,  and  upon  which  a number  of  fowls  were  now  familiarly 
roosting,  cackling  at  every  noise  made  below.  Fitzalan’s  room 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  275 

was  divided  from  tlie  rest  of  the  cabin  by  a thin  partition  of  wood 
plastered  with  pictures  of  saints  and  crosses. 

‘Save  you  kindly,  madam,’  said  the  mistress  of  the  mansion  to 
Amanda,  on  entering  it. 

Byrne  got  up  and,  with  many  scrapes,  offered  her  his  little  stool 
before  the  fire.  She  thanked  him,  and  accepted  it.  His  wife,  not- 
withstanding the  obligations  she  lay  under  to  her,  seemed  to  think 
as  much  respect  was  not  due  to  her  as  when  mistress  of  the  castle, 
and  therefore  never  left  her  seat,  or  quitted  her  spinning,  on  her 
entrance. 

‘ My  poor  father  is  very  ill,’  said  Amanda.  ‘ Why,  indeed,  the 
captain  has  had  a bad  time  of  it,’  answered  Mrs.  Byrne,  jogging 
her  wheel.  ‘ To  be  sure  he  has  suffered  some  little  change  ; but 
your  great  folks,  as  well  as  your  simple  folks,  must  look  to  that  in 
this  world  ; and  I don’t  know  why  they  should  not,  for  they  are 
not  better  than  the  others,  I believe.’ 

‘ Arrah,  Norah,  now,’  said  Byrne,  ‘ I wonder  you  are  not  shy 
of  speaking  so  to  the  poor  young  lady.’ 

Amanda’s  heart  was  surcharged  with  grief — she  felt  suffocating. 
She  arose,  unlatched  the  door,  and  the  keen,  cold  air  a little  re- 
vived her.  Tears  burst  forth,  she  indulged  them  freely,  and  they 
lightened  the  load  on  her  heart.  She  asked  for  a glass  of  .water. 
A glass  was  not  readily  to  be  procured.  Byrne  told  her  she  had 
better  take  a noggin  of  buttermilk.  This  she  refused,  and  he 
brought  her  one  of  water. 

She  now  conquered  the  reluctance  she  felt  to  speak  to  the  un- 
couth Mrs.  Byrne,  and  consulted  her  on  the  best  method  of  men- 
tioning her  arrival  to  her  father.  Mrs.  Byrne  said  he  had  been  in 
bed  some  time,  but  his  sleep  was  often  interrupted,  and  she  would 
now  step  into  the  chamber,  and  try  if  he  was  awake.  She  accord- 
ingly did  so,  but  returned  in  a moment,  and  said  he  still  slept. 

Amanda  wished  to  see  him  in  his  present  situation,  to  judge  how 
far  his  illness  had  affected  him  : she  stepped  softly  into  the  room. 
It  was  small  and  low,  lighted  by  a glimmering  rushlight,  and  a 
declining  lire.  The  furniture  was  poor  and  scanty  ; in  one  corner  ) 
stood  a wooden  bedstead,  without  curtains  or  any  shade,  and  on  ' 
this,  under  miserable  bedclothes,  lay  poor  Fitzalan.  Amanda 
shuddered,  as  she  looked  round  this  chamber  of  wretchedness. 

‘ Oh  ! my  father,’  she  cried  to  herself,  ‘ is  this  the  only  refuge  you 
could  find  ? ’ She  went  to  the  bed,  she  leaned  over  it  and  beheld 
his  face.  It  was  deadly  pale  and  emaciated  ; he  moaned  in  his 
sleep,  as  if  his  mind  was  dreadfully  oppressed.  Suddenly  he  be- 
gan to  move  ; he  sighed,  ‘ Amanda,  my  dearest  child,  shall  I 
never  more  behold  you  ? ’ 

Amanda  was  obliged  to  hasten  from  the  room,  to  give  vent  to 
her  emotions.  She  sobbed,  she  wrung  her  hands,  and  in  the 


276 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


bitterness  of  her  soul  exclaimed,  ‘ Alas  ! alas  ! I have  returned 
too  late  to  save  him.’ 

They  soon  after  heard  him  stir.  She  requested  Mrs.  Byrne  to 
go  in,  and  cautiously  inform  him  she  was  come.  She  complied, 
and  in  a moment  Amanda  heard  him  say,  ‘ Thank  Heaven  ! my 
darling  is  returned.  ’ ‘You  may  now  go  in,  miss,  ’ said  Mrs.  Byrne, 
coming  from  the  room.  Amanda  went  in.  Her  father  was  raised 
jn  the  bed  ; his  arms  were  extended  to  receive  her.  She  threw 
Aerself  into  them.  Language  was  denied  them  both,  but  tears, 
even  more  expressive  than  words,  evinced  their  feelings.  Fitza- 
Ian  first  recovered  his  voice.  ‘ My  prayer,’  said  he,  ‘ is  granted. 
Heaven  has  restored  my  child  to  smooth  the  pillow  of  sickness, 
and  soothe  the  last  moments  of  existence.’  ‘Oh,  my  father  !’ 
cried  Amanda,  ‘ have  pity  on  me,  and  mention  not  those  moments. 
Exert  yourself  for  your  child  ; who  in  this  wide  world  has  she 
but  thee  to  comfort,  support,  and  befriend  her  ? ’ ‘ Indeed,’  said 

he,  ‘for  your  sake  I wish  they  may  be  far  distant.’  He  held  her 
at  a little  distance  from  him  ; he  surveyed  her  face,  her  form,  her 
altered  complexion.  Her  fallen  features  appeared  to  shock  him. 
He  clasped  her  again  to  his  bosom,  ‘ The  world,  my  child,  I fear,’ 
cried  he,  ‘has  used  thee  most  unkindly.’  ‘Oh,  most  cruelly,’ 
sobbed  Amanda.  ‘ Then,  my  girl,  let  the  reflection  of  that  world, 
where  innocence  and  virtue  will  meet  a proper  reward,  console 
you.  Here  they  are  often  permitted  to  be  tried  ; but  as  gold  is 
tried  and  purified  by  fire,  so  are  they  by  adversity.  ‘ ‘ Those  whom 
God  loves,  He  chastises.”  Let  this  idea  give  you  patience  and 
fortitude  under  every  trial.  Never  forego  your  dependence  on 
Him,  though  calamity  should  pursue  you  to  the  very  brink  of  the 
grave  ; but  be  comforted  by  the  assurance  He  has  given,  that  those 
who  meekly  bear  the  cross  He  lays  upon  them,  shall  be  rewarded  ; 
that  He  will  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes,  and  swallow  up 
death  in  victory.  Though  a soldier  from  my  youth,  and  accus- 
tomed to  all  the  licentiousness  of  camps,  I never  forgot  my  Creator  ; 
and  I now  find  the  benefit  of  not  having  done  so.  Now,  when  my 
friends  desert,  the  world  frowns  upon  me,  when  sickness  and  sorrow 
have  overwhelmed  me,  religion  stands  me  in  good  stead  ; consoles 
me  for  what  I have  lost,  and  softens  the  remembrance  of  the  past 
by  presenting  prospects  of  future  brightness.’ 

So  spoke  Fitzalan  the  pious  sentiments  of  his  soul,  and  they 
calmed  the  agitations  of  Amanda.  He  found  her  clothes  were  wet, 
and  insisted  on  her  changing  them  directly.  In  the  bundle  the 
good  Eleanor  gave  her  was  a change  of  linen,  and  a cotton  wrap- 
per, which  she  now  put  on,  in  a small  closet,  or  rather  shed,  adjoin- 
ing her  father's  room.  A good  fire  was  made  up,  a better  light 
brought  in,  and  some  bread  and  wine  from  a small  cupboard  in 
the  room,  which  contained  Fitzalan’s  things,  set  before  her,  of 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


211 


which  he  m^de  her  immediately  partake.  He  took  a glass  of  wine 
himself  from  her,  and  tried  to  cheer  her  spirits.  ‘ He  had  been 
daily  expecting  her  arrival,’  he  said,  ‘and  had  had  a pallet  and 
bedclothes  kept  airing  for  her.  He  hoped  she  would  not  be  dis- 
satisfied with  sleeping  in  the  closet.’  ‘ Ah  ! my  father,’  she  cried, 

‘ can  you  ask  your  daughter  such  a question  ? ’ She  expressed 
her  fears  of  injuring  him,  by  having  disturbed  his  repose.  ‘ No,’ 
he  said,  ‘ it  was  a delightful  interruption.  It  was  a relief  from 
pain  and  anxiety.’ 

Lord  Cherbury,  he  informed  her,  had  written  him  a letter,  which 
pierced  him  to  the  soul.  ‘ He  accused  me,’  said  he,  ‘ of  endeavor- 
ing to  promote  a marriage  between  you  and  Lord  Mortimer  ; of 
treacherously  trying  to  counteract  his  views,  and  take  advantage 
of  his  unsuspecting  friendship.  I was  shocked  at  these  accusations. 
But  how  excruciating  would  my  anguish  have  been  had  I really 
deserved  them.  I soon  determined  upon  the  conduct  I should 
adopt,  which  was  to  deny  the  justice  of  his  charges,  and  resign  his 
agency — for  any  further  dealings  with  a man  who  could  think  me 
capable  of  meanness  or  duplicity,  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  My 
accounts  were  always  in  a state  to  allow  me  to  resign  at  a moment’s 
warning.  It  was  my  intention  to  go  to  England,  put  them  into 
Lord  Cherbury’s  hands,  and  take  my  Amanda  from  a place  where 
she  might  meet  with  indignities  as  little  merited  by  her  as  those 
her  father  had  received  were  by  him.  A sudden  and  dreadful  dis- 
order, which  I am  convinced  the  agitation  of  my  mind  brought 
on,  prevented  my  executing  this  intention.  I wrote,  however, 
to  his  lordship,  acquainting  him  with  my  resignation  of  his 
agency,  and  transmitting  my  accounts  and  arrears.  I sent  a let- 
ter to  you  at  the  same  time,  with  a small  remittance  for  your  im- 
mediate return,  and  then  retired  from  the  castle,  for  I felt  a longer 
continuance  in  it  would  degrade  me  to  the  character  of  a mean 
dependant,  and  intimate  a hope  of  being  reinstated  in  my  former 
station  ; which,  should  Lord  Cherbury  now  offer,  I should  reject, 
for  ignoble  must  be  the  mind  which  could  accept  of  favors  from 
those  who  doubted  its  integrity.  Against  such  conduct  my  feel- 
ings revolt.  Poverty,  to  me,  is  more  welcome  than  independence, 
when  purchased  with  the  loss  of  esteem.’ 

Amanda  perceived  her  father  knew  nothing  of  her  sufferings, 
but  supposed  her  return  occasioned  by  his  letter.  She  therefore 
resolved,  if  possible,  not  to  undeceive  him,  at  leas^  till  his  health 
was  better.  The  night  was  far  advanced,  and  her  father,  who  saw 
her  ill,  and  almost  sinking  with  fatigue,  requested  her  to  retire  to 
rest.  She  accordingly  did.  Her  bed  was  made  up  in  the  little 
closet.  Mrs.  Byrne  assisted  her  to  undress,  and  brought  her  a 
bowl  of  whey,  which,  she  trusted,  with  a comfortable  sleep, 
would  carry  off  her  feverish  symptoms,  and  enable  her  to  be  her 


•278 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


father’s  nurse.  Her  rest,  however,  was  far  from  bein^  comfortabV 
It  was  broken  by  horrid  dreams,  in  which  she  beheld  the  pale  and 
emaciated  figure  of  her  father  suffering  the  most  exquisite  tor- 
tures ; and  when  she  started  from  these  dreams,  she  heard  his 
deep  moans,  which  were  like  daggers  going  through  her  heart. 
She  arose  once  or  twice,  supposing  him  in  pain,  but  when  she  went 
to  his  bed  she  found  him  asleep,  and  was  convinced,  from  that  cir- 
cumstance, his  pain  was  more  of  the  mental  than  the  bodily  kind. 
She  felt  extremely  ill.  Her  bones  were  sore  from  the  violent  mo- 
tion of  the  carriage,  and  she  fancied  rest  would  do  her  good  ; but 
when,  toward  morning,  she  was  inclined  to  take  some,  she  was 
completely  prevented  by  the  noise  the  children  made  on  rising. 
Fearful  of  neglecting  her  father,  she  arose  soon  after  herself,  but 
was  scarcely  able  to  put  on  her  clothes  from  excessive  weakness. 
She  found  him  in  bed,  but  awake.  He  welcomed  her  with  a lan- 
guid smile,  and  extending  his  hand,  which  was  reduced  to  mere 
skin  and  bone,  said,  ‘ that  joy  was  a greater  enemy  to  repose  than 
grief,  and  had  broken  his  earlier  than  usual  that  morning.’  He 
made  her  sit  down  by  him.  He  gazed  on  her  with  unutterable 
tenderness.  ‘ In  Divine  language,’  cried  he,  ‘ I may  say  : “Let 
me  see  thy  countenance  ; let  me  hear  thy  voice  ; but  sweet  is  thy 
voice,  and  thy  countenance  is  comely,  and  my  soul  has  pleasure  in 
gazing  on  it.”  The  kettle  was  already  boiling.  He  had  procured 
a few  necessaries  for  himself,  such  as  tea  things  and  glasses. 
Amanda  placed  the  tea-table  by  the  bed  side,  and  gave  him  his 
breakfast.  While  receiving  it  from  her,  his  eyes  were  raised  to 
Heaven,  as  if  in  thankful  gratitude  for  the  inestimable  blessing  he 
still  possessed  in  such  a child.  After  breakfast,  he  said  he  would 
rise,  and  Amanda  retired  into  the  garden  till  he  was  dressed,  if 
that  could  deserve  the  appellation,  which  was  only  a slip  of  ground 
planted  with  cabbages  and  potatoes,  and  inclosed  with  loose  stones 
and  blackberry  bushes.  The  spring  was  already  advanced.  The 
day  was  fine.  The  light  and  fieecy  clouds  were  gradually  dispers- 
ing, and  the  sky,  almost  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  was  of  a 
clear  blue.  The  dusky  green  of  the  blackberry  bushes  was  en- 
livened by  the  pale  purple  of  their  blossoms.  Tufts  of  primroses 
grew  beneath  their  shelter.  The  fields,  which  rose  with  a gentle 
swell  above  the  garden,  were  covered  with  a vivid  green,  spangled 
with  daisies,  buttercups,  and  wild  honeysuckles,  and  the  birds,  as 
they  fluttered  from  spray  to  spray,  with  notes  of  gladness  hailed 
the  genial  season. 

But  neither  the  season  nor  its  charms  could  now,  as  heretofore, 
delight  Amanda.  She  felt  forlorn  and  disconsolate;  deprived  of 
the  comforts  of  life,  and  no  longer  interested  in  the  objects  about 
her,  she  sat  down  upon  a stone  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  and  she 
thought  the  fresh  breeze  from  the  sea  cooled  the  feverish  heat  of 


THE  CHILDR"^N  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


279 


her  blood.  ‘ Alas  ! ' she  said  to  herself,  ‘ at  this  season  last 
year,  how  different  was  iny  situation  from  the  present  ! ’ Though 
not  in  aflduence,  neitiier  was  she  then  in  absolute  distress  ; and 
she  had  besides  the  comfortable  hope  of  having  her  father’s  diffi- 
culties removed.  Like  Burns’  mountain  daisy,  she  had  then 
cheerfully  glinted  forth  amid  the  storm,  because  she  thought 
that  storm  would  be  soon  overblown  ; but  now,  she  saw  herself 
on  the  point  of  being  finally  crushed  beneath  the  rude  pressure 
of  poverty. 

She  recollected  the  words  which  had  escaped  her  when  she  last 
saw  Tudor  Hall,  and  she  thought  they  were  dictated  by  some- 
thing like  a prophetic  spirit.  She  had  then  said,  as  she  leaned  up- 
on a little  gate  which  looked  into  the  domain  : ‘ When  these 
woods  again  glow  with  vegetation  ; when  every  shade  resounds 
with  harmony,  and  the  flowers  and  the  blossoms  spread  their 
foliage  to  the  sun,  ah  ! where  will  Amanda  be  ! far  distant,  in 
all  probability,  from  these  delightful  shades  ; perhaps  deserted 
and  forgotten  by  their  master.’ 

She  was  indeed  far  distant  from  them  ; deserted,  and  if  not  for 
gotten,  at  least  only  remembered  with  contempt  by  their  master — 
remembered  with  contempt  by  Lord  Mortimer.  It  was  an  idea  ot 
intolerable  anguish.  His  name  was  no  more  repeated  as  a charm 
to  soothe  her  grief  ; his  idea  increased  her  misery. 

She  continued  indulging  her  melancholy  meditations,  till  in- 
formed by  one  of  the  children  the  captain  was  ready  to  receive 
her.  She  hastened  in,  and  found  him  in  an  old  high-backed  chair, 
and  the  ravages  of  care  and  sickness  were  now  more  visible  to  her 
than  they  had  been  the  night  before.  He  was  reduced  to  a mere 
skeleton.  ‘ The  original  brightness  of  his  form  ’ was  quite  gone, 
and  he  seemed  already  on  the  very  brink  of  the  grave.  The  agony 
of  Amanda’s  feelings  was  expressed  on  her  countenance — he  per- 
ceived and  guessed  its  source.  He  endeavored  to  compose  and 
comfort  her.  She  mentioned  a physician  ; he  tried  to  dissuade 
her  from  the  idea  of  bringing  one,  but  she  besought  him  in  com- 
passion to  her  to  consent,  and  overcome  by  her  earnestness,  he  at 
last  promised  the  ensuing  day  she  should  do  as  she  wished. 

It  was  now  Sunday,  and  he  desired  the  service  of  the  day  to  be 
read.  A small  Bible  lay  on  the  table  before  him,  and  Amanda 
complied  with  his  desire. 

In  the  first  lesson  were  these  words  : ‘ Leave  thy  fatherless 
children  to  me,  and  I will  be  their  father.’  The  tears  gushed  from 
Fitzalan  ; he  laid  his  hand,  which  appeared  convulsed  with  agita- 
tion, on  the  book.  ‘ Oh  ! what  words  of  comfort  ! ’ cried  he,  ‘are 
these  ; what  transport  do  they  convey  to  the  heart  of  a parent 
burdened  with  anxiety  ! Yes,  merciful  Power,  I will,  with  grate- 
ful joy,  commit  my  children  to  thy  care,  for  Thou  art  the  friend 


280 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


who  will  never  forsake  them.’  He  desired  Amanda  to  proceed  ; 
her  voice  was  weak  and  broken,  and  the  tears,  in  spite  of  her 
efforts  to  restrain  them,  stole  down  her  cheeks. 

When  she  had  concluded,  her  father  drew  her  toward  him,  and 
inquired  into  all  that  had  passed  during  her  stay  in  London.  She 
related  to  him,  without  reserve,  the  various  incidents  she  had  met 
with  previous  to  her  going  to  the  marchioness’s  ; acknowledged 
the  hopes  and  fears  she  experienced  on  Lord  Mortimer’s  account, 
and  the  argument  he  had  made  use  of  to  induce  her  to  a clandes- 
tine union,  with  her  positive  refusal  to  such  a step. 

A beam  of  pleasure  illumined  the  pallid  face  of  Fitzalan.  ‘ You 
acted,  ’ said  he,  ‘ as  I expected  ; and  I glory  in  my  child,  and  feel 
more  indignation  than  ever  against  Lord  Cherbury  for  his  mean 
suspicions.’  Amanda  was  convinced  those  suspicions  had  been 
infused  into  his  mind  by  those  who  had  struck  at  her  peace  and 
fame.  This  idea,  however,  as  well  as  their  injuries  to  her,  she 
meant  if  possible  to  conceal.  When  her  father,  therefore,  desired 
her  to  proceed  in  her  narrative,  her  voice  began  to  falter,  her 
mind  became  disturbed,  and  her  countenance  betrayed  her  agita- 
tion. The  remembrance  of  the  dreadful  scenes  she  had  gone 
through  at  the  marchioness’s  made  her  involuntarily  shudder,  and 
she  wished  to  conceal  them  forever  from  her  father,  but  found  it 
impossible  to  evade  his  minute  and  earnest  inquiries. 

‘ Gracious  Heaven  ! ’ said  he,  on  hearing  them,  ‘ what  compli- 
cated cruelty  and  deceit  ; inhuman  monsters  ! to  have  no  pity  on 
one  so  young,  so  innocent,  so  helpless.  The  hand  of  sorrow  has 
indeed  pressed  heavy  on  thee,  my  child  ; but,  after  the  marchion 
ess’s  former  conduct,  I cannot  be  surprised  at  any  action  of  hers.^ 

He  gave  her  a note  to  discharge  her  debt  to  Howel,  and  begged 
she  would  immediately  write  and  return  his  grateful  acknowledg- 
ments for  his  benevolence.  She  feared  he  inconvenienced  him- 
self by  parting  with  the  note  ; but  he  assured  her  he  could  spare 
it  extremely  well,  as  he  had  been  an  economist,  aiid  had  still  suffi- 
cient money  to  support  them  a few  months  longer  in  their  present 
situation. 

Amanda  now  inquired  when  he  had  heard  from  her  brother. 
She  said  he  had  not  answered  her  last  letter,  and  that  his  silence 
had  made  her  very  uneasy. 

‘ Alas  ! poor  Oscar  ! ’ exclaimed  Fitzalan,  ‘ he  has  not  been  ex- 
empt from  his  portion  of  distress.  ’ 

He  took  a letter,  as  he  spoke,  from  his  pocket-book,  and  pre- 
sented it  to  Amanda.  She  opened  it  with  a trembling  hand,  and 
read  as  follows  : 

My  dear  Father  : Particular  circumstaDces  prevented  my  answering  your  last  lei* 
ter  as  soon  as  I could  have  wished  ; and  indeed,  the  intelligence  I have  to  communicate 
makes  me  almost  averse  to  write  at  all.  As  my  situation,  however,  must  sooner  or  later 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


281 


i>e  Imown  to  you,  I think  it  better  to  inform  you  of  it  myself,  as  I can,  at  the  same  time, 
jeconcile  you,  I trust,  in  some  degree  to  it,  by  assuring  you  I bear  it  patiently,  and  that  it 
has  not  been  caused  by  any  action  which  can  degrade  my  character  as  a man  or  a sol- 
dier. I have  long,  indeed,  had  a powerful  enemy  to  cope  with,  and,  it  will  no  doubt 
surprise  you  to  hear,  that  that  enemy  is  Colonel  Belgrave.  An  interference  in  the  cause 
of  humanity  provoked  his  insolence  and  malignity.  Neither  his  words  nor  looks  were 
bearable,  and  I was  irritated  by  them  to  send  him  a challenge.  Had  I reflected,  the 
probable  consequences  of  such  a step  must  have  occurred  and  prevented  my  taking  it ; 
but  passion  blinded  my  reason,  and  in  yielding  to  its  dictates  do  I hold  myself  alone 
culpable  throughout  the  whole  affair.  I gave  him  the  opportunity  his  malicious  heart 
had  long  desired,  of  working  my  ruin.  I was,  by  his  order,  put  under  an  immediate 
arrest.  A court-martial  was  held  and  I was  broke  for  disrespect  to  a superior  officer ; 
but  it  was  Imagined  by  the  whole  corps  I should  have  been  restored.  I,  however,  knew 
too  much  of  Belgrave’s  disposition  to  believe  this  would  be  the  case  ; but  never  shall 
he  triumph  in  the  distress  he  has  caused  by  witnessing  it.  I have  already  settled  on 
the  course  I shall  pursue,  and  ere  this  letter  reaches  you  I shall  have  quitted  my  native 
kingdom.  Forgive  me,  my  dear  sir,  for  not  consulting  you  relative  to  my  conduct. 
But  I feared,  if  I did,  your  tenderness  would  interfere  to  prevent  it,  or  lead  you  to  dis- 
tress yourself  on  my  account : and  to  think  that  you  and  my  dear  sister  were  deprived 
of  the  smallest  comfort,  by  my  means,  would  be  a source  of  intolerable  anguish  to  me. 
Blessed  as  I am  with  youth,  health,  and  fortitude,  I have  no  doubt  but  I shall  make  my 
way  through  the  rugged  path  of  life  extremely  well.  A parting  visit  I avoided,  from  the 
certainty  of  its  being  painful  to  us  both.  I shall  write  as  soon  as  I reach  my  place  of 
destination.  I rejoice  to  hear  Amanda  is  so  happily  situated  with  Lady  Greystock  ; 
may  your  suffering  and  her  merit  be  rewarded  as  they  deserve  ! Suffer  not,  I entreat, 
too  tender  an  anxiety  for  my  interest  to  disturb  your  repose.  I again  repeat  I have  no 
doubt  but  what  I shall  do  well.  That  Providence,  in  which  I trust,  will,  1 humbly  hope, 
support  me  through  every  difficulty,  and  again  unite  me  to  the  friends  so  valuable  to  my 
heart.  Farewell,  my  dear  father,  and  be  assured,  with  unabated  respect  and  gratitude, 
I subjoin  myself  your  affectionate  son, 

Oscar  Fitzalan. 

This  letter  was  a cruel  shock  to  Amanda.  She  hoped  to  have 
procured  her  brother’s  company,  and  that  her  father’s  melancholy 
and  her  own  would  have  been  alleviated  by  it.  Sensible  of  the  diffi- 
culties Oscar  must  undergo,  without  friends  or  fortune,  the  tears 
stole  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  almost  dreaded  she  would  no  more 
behold  him. 

Her  father  besought  her  to  spare  him  the  misery  of  seeing  those 
tears.  He  leaned  upon  her  for  comfort  and  support,  he  said,  and 
bid  her  not  disappoint  him.  She  hastily  wiped  away  her  tears  ; 
and  though  she  could  not  conquer,  tried  to  suppress  her  an- 
guish. 

Johnaten  and  Kate  called,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  to  know  if 
they  could  be  of  any  service  to  Fitzalan.  Amanda  engaged 
Johnaten  to  go  to  town  the  next  morning  fora  physician,  and 
gave  Kate  the  key  of  a wardrobe  where  she  had  left  some  things, 
which  she  desired  her  to  pack  up  and  send  to  the  cabin  in  the 
evening.  Mrs.  Byrne  gave  them  one  of  her  fowls  for  dinner,  and 
Fitzalan  assumed  an  appearance  of  cheerfulness,  and  the  evening 
wore  away  somewhat  better  than  the  preceding  part  of  the  day 
had  done. 

Johnaten  was  punctual  in  obeying  Amanda’s  commands,  and 
brought  a physician  the  next  morning  to  the  cabin.  Fitzalan 


282 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


appeared  much  worse,  and  Amanda  rejoiced  that  she  had  been 
resolute  in  procuring  him  advice. 

She  withdrew  from  the  room  soon  after  the  physician  had. 
entered  it,  and  waited  without  in  trembling  anxiety  for  his  ap- 
pearance. When  he  came  out  she  asked,  with  a faltering  voice, 
his  opinion,  and  besought  him  not  to  deceive  her  from  pity  to 
her  feelings. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  assured  her  he  would  not  deviate  from 
truth  for  the  world.  The  captain  was  indeed  in  a ticklish  situa- 
tion, he  said,  but  the  medicines  he  had  ordered,  and  sea  bathing, 
he  doubted  not,  would  set  all  to  rights  ; it  was  fortunate,  he 
added,  she  delayed  no  longer  sending  for  him  ; mentioned  twenty 
miraculous  cures  he  had  performed  ; admired  the  immense  fine 
prospect  before  the  door,  and  wished  her  good-morning,  with 
what  he  thought  quite  a degagee  and  irresistible  air. 

She  was  willing  to  believe  his  assurance  of  her  father’s  re- 
covery ; as  the  drowning  wretch  will  grasp  at  every  straw,  she 
eagerly  embraced  the  shadow  of  comfort,  and  in  the  recovery  of  her 
father  looked  forward  to  consolation  for  all  her  sorrows.  She  strug- 
gled against  her  own  illness,  that  no  assiduous  attention  might  be 
wanting  to  him  ; and  would  have  sat  up  with  him  ^t  night,  had 
he  not  positively  insisted  on  her  going  to  bed. 

The  medicines  he  was  ordered  he  received  from  her  hands,  but 
with  a look  which  seemed  to  express  his  conviction  of  their  in  effi- 
cacy. All,  however,  she  wished  him  to  do,  he  did,  and  often 
raised  his  eyes  to  Heaven,  as  if  to  implore  it  to  reward  her  care, 
and  yet  a little  longer  spare  him  to  this  beloved  child,  whose  hap- 
piness so  much  depended  on  the  prolongation  of  his  existence. 

Four  days  passed  heavily  away,  and  the  assurances  of  the  phy- 
sician, who  was  punctual  in  his  attendance,  lost  their  effect  upon 
Amanda.  Her  father  was  considerably  altered  for  the  worse,  and 
unable  to  rise,  except  for  a few  minutes  in  the  evening,  to  have 
his  bed  made.  He  complained  of  no  pain  or  sickness,  but  seemed 
sinking  beneath  an  easy  and  gradual  decay.  It  was  only  at  inter- 
vals he  could  converse  with  his  daughter.  His  conversation  was 
then  calculated  to  strengthen  her  fortitude  and  resignation,  and 
prepare  her  for  an  approaching  melancholy  event.  Whenever 
she  received  a hint  of  it,  her  agony  was  inexpressible  ; but  pity  for 
her  feelings  could  not  prevent  her  father  from  using  every  oppor- 
tunity that  occurred  for  laying  down  rules  and  precepts  which 
might  be  serviceable  to  her  when  without  a guide  or  protector. 
Sometimes  he  adverted  to  the  past,  but  this  was  only  done  to 
make  her  more  cautious  in  the  future. 

He  charged  her  to  avoid  any  further  intimacy  with  Lord  Mortr 
mer,  as  an  essential  measure  for  the  restoration  of  her  peace,  the 
preservation  of  her  fame,  and  the  removal  of  Lord  Cnerbury's  un 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


283 


Just  suspicions,  ‘ who  will  tind  at  last,’  continued  he,  ‘how much 
he  wronged  me,  and  may,  perhaps,  feel  compunction  when  be- 
yond his  power  to  make  reparation.’ 

To  all  he  desired,  Amanda  promised  a religious  observance  ; 
she  thought  it  unnecessary  in  him,  indeed,  to  desire  her  to  avoid 
Lord  Mortimer,  convinced  as  she  was  that  he  had  utterly  aban- 
doned her  ; but  the  grief  this  desertion  occasioned  she  believed  she 
should  soon  overcome  was  her  father  once  restored  to  health,  for 
then  she  would  have  no  time  for  useless  regrets  or  retrospections^ 
but  be  obliged  to  pass  every  hour  in  active  exertions  for  his  sup- 
port and  comfort. 

A week  passed  away  in  this  manner  at  the  cabin — a week  of 
wretchedness  to  Amanda,  who  perceived  her  father  growing 
weaker  and  weaker.  She  assisted  him,  as  usual,  to  rise  one  even- 
ing for  a few  minutes  ; when  dressed,  he  complained  of  an  oppres- 
sion in  his  breathing,  and  desired  to  be  supported  to  the  air. 
Amanda  with  difficulty  led  him  to  the  window,  which  she  opened, 
and  seated  him  by  it,  then  knelt  before  him,  and  putting  her  arms 
round  his  waist,  fastened  her  eyes  with  anxious  tenderness  upon 
his  face. 

The  evening  was  serenely  fine  ; the  sun  was  setting  in  all  its 
glory,  and  the  sea,  illumined  by  its  parting  beams,  looked  like  a 
sheet  of  burnished  silver. 

‘ What  a lovely  scene  ! ’ cried  Fitzalan  faintly  ; ‘ with  what 
majesty  does  the  sun  retire  from  the  world ! the  calmness  which 
attends  its  departure  is  such,  I think,  as  must  attend  the  exit  of  a 
good  man.’  He  paused  for  a few  minutes,  then  raising  his  eyes 
to  heaven  exclaimed:  ‘Merciful  Power!  had  it  pleased  thee,  I 
could  have  wished  yet  a little  longer  to  have  been  spared  to  this 
young  creature  ; but  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  ! Confiding  in 
thy  mercy,  I leave  her  with  some  degree  of  fortitude.’ 

Amanda’s  tears  began  to  flow  as  he  spoke.  He  raised  his  hand, 
on  which  they  fell,  and,  kissing  them  off,  exclaimed:  ‘Precious 
drops  ! My  Amanda,  weep  not  too  bitterly  for  me — like  a 
weary  traveler,  think  that  rest,  must  now  be  acceptable  to 
me.’ 

She  interrupted  him,  and  conjured  him  to  change  the  discourse. 
He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  pressed  her  hands  between  his, 
and  said  : 

‘Yet  a little  longer,  my  child,  bear  with  it;’  then  bade  her 
assure  her  brother,  whenever  they  met,  which  he  trusted  and  be- 
lieved would  be  soon,  he  had  his  father’s  blessing — ‘ the  only 
legacy,’  he  cried,  ‘ I can  leave  him,  but  one,  I am  confident,  he 
merits,  and  will  value.  To  you,  my  girl,  I have  no  doubt  he  will 
prove  a friend  and  guardian.  You  may  both,  perhaps,  be  amply 
recompensed  for  all  your  sorrows.  Providence  is  just  in  all  its 


284 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


dealings,  and  may  yet  render  the  lovely  offspring  of  my  Malvina 
truly  happy.’ 

He  appeared  exhausted  by  speaking,  and  Amanda  assisted  him 
to  lie  down,  entreating  him,  at  the  same  time,  to  take  some  drops. 
He  consented,  and  while  she  was  pouring  them  out  at  a little  table, 
her  back  to  the  bed,  she  heard  a deep  groan.  The  bottle  dropped 
from  her  hand,  she  sprang  to  the  bed,  and  perceived  her  father  ly- 
ing senseless  on  the  pillow.  She  imagined  he  had  fainted,  and 
screamed  out  for  assistance.  The  woman  of  the  cabin,  her  hus- 
band, and  mother  all  rushed  into  the  room.  He  was  raised  up, 
his  temples  and  hands  chafed,  and  every  remedy  within  the  house 
applied  for  his  recovery,  but  in  vain — his  spirit  had  forsaken  its 
tenement  of  clay  forever. 

Amanda,  when  convinced  of  this,  wrung  her  hands  together  ; 
then,  suddenly  opening  them,  she  clasped  the  lifeless  body  to  her 
breast,  and  sunk  fainting  beside  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

She  remained  a considerable  time  in  a state  of  insensibility, 
and,  when  recovered,  she  found  herself  in  a bed  laid  upon  the  floor 
in  a corner  of  the  outside  room.  Her  senses  were  at  first  con- 
fused— she  felt  as  if  waking  from  a disagreeable  dream,  but  in  a 
few  minutes  a perfect  recollection  of  what  had  passed  returned. 
She  saw  someone  sitting  by  the  bed — she  raised  herself  a little, 
and  perceived  Sister  Mary.  ‘ This  is,  indeed,  a charitable  visit,’ 
cried  she,  extending  her  hand,  and  speaking  in  a low,  broken 
voice.  The  good-natured  nun  jumped  from  her  seat  on  hearing 
her  speak,  and  embraced  her  most  tenderly.  Her  caresses  affected 
Amanda  inexpressibly — she  dropped  her  head  upon  her  breast, 
and  wept  with  a vehemence  which  relieved  the  oppression  of  her 
heart. 

Sister  Mary  said  she  had  never  heard  of  her  return  to  the  coun- 
try, till  Mrs.  Byrne  came  to  St.  Catherine’s  for  a few  sprigs  of 
rosemary  to  strew  over  the  poor  captain.  She  had  returned  with 
her  then  to  the  cabin,  to  try  if  she  could  be  of  any  service,  and  to  in- 
vite her,  in  the  name  of  the  prioress  and  the  whole  sisterhood,  to 
the  convent. 

Amanda  thanked  her  for  her  kind  invitation,  which,  she  said, 
she  must  decline  accepting  for  a few  days,  till  she  had  performed 
all  her  duties,  which,  in  a voice  half  stifled  by  sobs,  she  added, 
‘ the  grave  would  soon  terminate.  ’ She  was  sorry,  she  said,  that 
they  had  undressed  her,  and  requested  Sister  Mary  to  assist  her  in 
putting  on  her  clothes.  The  Sister  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  this, 
but  soon  found  she  was  determined  to  spend  the  remainder  of  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


285 


nig’ht  in  her  father’s  apartment.  She  accordingly  dressed  her- 
for  Amanda's  trembling  hands  refused  their  accustomed  office— 
and  made  her  take  a glass  of  wine  and  water,  ere  she  suffered  her 
to  move  toward  the  door.  Amanda  was  astonished,  as  she  ap- 
proached it,  to  hear  a violent  noise,  like  the  mingled  sounds  of 
laughing  and  singing.  Her  soul  recoiled  at  the  tumult,  and  she 
asked  Sister  Mary,  with  a countenance  of  terror,  ‘ what  it  meant  ? ’ 
She  replied,  ‘ it  was  only  some  friends  and  neighbors  doing  honor 
to  the  captain.’  Amanda  hastily  opened  the  door,  anxious  to  ter- 
minate the  suspense  these  words  occasioned,  but,  how  great  was 
hei’  horror,  when  she  perceived  a set  of  the  meanest  rustics  assem- 
bled round  the  bed,  with  every  appearance  of  inebriety,  laughing, 
shouting,  and  smoking.  What  a savage  scene  for  a child  whose 
heart  was  bursting  with  grief  ! She  shrieked  with  horror,  and, 
flinging  herself  into  the  arms  of  Sister  Mary,  conjured  her  to  have 
the  room  cleared. 

Sister  Mary,  from  being  accustomed  to  such  scenes,  felt  neither 
horror  nor  disgust  : she  complied,  however,  with  the  request  of 
Amanda,  and  besought  them  to  depart,  saying  : ‘ that  Miss  Fitz- 
alan  was  a stranger  to  their  customs,  and  besides,  poor  thing,  quite 
beside  herself  with  grief.’  They  began  to  grumble  at  the  proposal 
of  removing  ; they  had  made  preparations  for  spending  a merry 
night,  and  Mrs.  Byrne  said,  ‘ if  she  had  thought  things  would 
have  turned  out  in  this  way,  the  captain  might  have  found  some 
other  place  to  die  in — for  the  least  one  could  have,  after  his  giving 
them  so  much  trouble,  was  a little  enjoyment  with  one’s  neighbors 
at  the  latter  end.’  Johnaten  and  Kate,  who  were  among  the 
party,  joined  their  entreaties  to  Sister  Mary’s,  and  she,  to  tempt 
them  to  compliance,  said,  ‘ that  in  all  probability  they  would  soon 
have  another  and  a better  opportunity  for  making  merry  than  the 
present.’  They  at  length  retired,  and  Sister  Mary  and  Amanda 
were  left  alone  in  the  chamber  of  death.  The  dim  light  which  re- 
mained cast  a glimmering  shade  upon  the  face  of  Fitzalan  that 
added  to  its  ghastliness.  Amanda  now  indulged  in  all  the  luxury 
of  grief,  and  found  in  Sister  Mary  a truly  sympathetic  friend,  for 
the  good  nun  was  famed  throughout  the  little  circle  of  her  acquaint- 
ance for  weeping  with  those  that  wept,  and  rejoicing  with  those 
that  rejoiced.  She  obtained  a promise  from  Amanda  of  accom- 
panying her  to  St.  Catherine’s  as  soon  as  her  father  was  interred  ; 
and  in  return  for  this  she  gave  an  assurance  of  continuing  with 
her  till  the  last  melancholy  offices  were  over,  and  also  that,  with 
the  assistance  of  Johnaten,  she  would  see  everything  proper  pro- 
vided. This  was  some  comfort  to  Amanda,  who  felt  herself  at 
present  unequal  to  any  exertion  ; yet,  notwithstanding  her  fatigue 
and  illness,  she  persevered  in  her  resolution  of  sitting  up  with 
laer  father  every  night,  dreading  that,  if  she  retired  to  bed,  a scene 


286 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


of  riot  would  again  ensue,  which,  in  her  opinion,  was  sacrilege 
to  the  dead.  She  went  to  bed  every  morning  and  was  nursed 
with  the  most  tender  attention  by  Sister  Mary,  who  also  insisted  on 
being  her  companion  a.  night.  This,  however,  was  but  a mere 
matter  of  form,  for  the  good  sister  was  totally  unable  to  keep  her 
eyes  open,  and  slept  as  comfortably  upon  the  earthen  floor,  with 
her  gown  made  into  a pillow  for  her  head,  as  if  laid  upon  down  : 
then  was  poor  Amanda  left  to  her  own  reflections,  and  the  melan- 
choly contemplation  of  her  beloved  father’s  remains.  The  even- 
ing of  the  fourth  day  after  his  decease  was  fixed  upon  for  his  in- 
terment; with  streaming  eyes  and  a breaking  heart,  Amanda  be- 
held him  put  into  the  cofifin,  and  in  that  moment  felt  as  if  he  had 
again  died  before  her.  A small  procession  attended,  consisting  of 
the  people  of  the  house.  Johnaten  and  Kate,  and  a few  respect- 
able farmers,  to  whom  Fitzalan  had  endeared  himself  during  his 
short  abode  at  Castle  Carberry  ; the  men  had  scarfs  and  hat- 
bands, and  the  women  hoods. 

Johnaten,  who  had  been  a soldier  in  his  youth,  resolved  to  pay 
him  some  military  honors,  and  placed  his  hat  and  sword  upon  the 
coffin,  Amanda,  by  the  most  painful  efforts,  supported  the  prep- 
arations for  his  removal ; but  when  she  saw  the  coffin  actually 
raised  to  betaken  out,  she  could  no  longer  restrain  her  feelings; 
she  shrieked  in  the  agony  of  her  soul,  a sickness,  almost  deadly, 
seized  her,  and  she  fell  fainting  upon  Sister  Mary’s  bosom. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Oh,  let  me  unlade  my  breast, 

Pour  out  the  fullness  of  my  soul  before  you. 

Show  every  tender,  every  grateful  thought. 

This  wondrous  goodness  stirs.  But  'tis  impossible. 

And  utterance  all  is  vile;  since  I can  only 

Swear  you  reign  here,  but  never  tell  how  much.— Rowb. 

Sister  Mary  recovered  her  with  difficulty,  but  found  it  impos- 
sible to  remove  her  from  the  cabin  till  she  was  more  composed. 
In  about  two  hours  its  inhabitants  returned,  and  the  car  having 
arrived  which  she  had  ordered  to  convey  Amanda  to  St.  Cath- 
erine’s, she  was  placed  upon  it  in  a state  scarcely  animate,  and, 
supported  by  Sister  Mary,  was  conveyed  to  that  peaceful  asylum. 
On  arriving  at  it  she  was  carried  immediately  into  the  prioress’s 
apartment,  who  received  and  welcomed  her  with  the  most  tender 
afPection  and  sensibility — a tenderness  which  roused  Amanda  from 
the  stupefaction  into  which  she  appeared  sinking,  and  made  her 
weep  violently.  She  felt  relieved,  from  doing  so,  and,  as  some 
return  for  the  kindness  she  received,  endeavored  to  appear  bene- 
fited by  it.  She,  therefore,  declined  going  to  bed,  but  lay  down 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


28? 


upon  a little  matted  couch  inthe  prioress’s  room.  The  tea  was  set 
close  hy  it.  As  she  refused  any  otlier  refreshment,  she  obtained 
a cup  by  a promise  of  eating  something  with  it.  None  of  the 
sisterhood — Sister  Mary  excepted — were  admitted,  and  Amanda 
felt  this  delicate  attention  and  respect  to  her  sorrows  with  grati- 
tude. She  arrived  at  the  convent  on  the  eve  of  their  patron  saint^ 
which  was  always  celebrated  with  solemnity.  After  tea,  there- 
fore, the  prioress  and  Sister  Mary  were  compelled  to  repair  to  the 
chapel ; but  she  removed  the  reluctance  they  felt  to  leave  her  alone 
by  complaining  of  being  drowsy.  A pillow  being  laid  under  her 
head  by  Sister  Mary,  soon  after  they  quitted  her  she  fell  into  a 
profound  slumber,  in  which  she  continued  till  awoke  by  distant 
music,  so  soft,  so  clear,  so  harmonious  that  the  delightful  sensa- 
tions it  gave  her  she  could  only  compare  to  those  which  she  im- 
agined a distressed  and  pensive  soul  would  feel  when,  springing^ 
from  the  shackles  of  mortality,  it  first  heard  the  heavenly  sounds 
that  welcomed  it  to  the  realms  of  bliss.  The  chapel,  from  which, 
those  celestial  sounds  proceeded,  was  at  the  extremity  of  the  house, 
so  that  they  sometimes  swelled  upon  her  ear,  sometimes  faintly 
sunk  upon  it.  The  pauses  in  the  organ,  which  was  finely  played, 
were  filled  up  by  the  sweet,  though  less  powerful  strains  of  the 
sisterhood,  who  sung  a hymn  in  honor  of  their  saint. 

No  one  was  here  exempt, 

No  voice  but  well  could  join  melodious  part. 

’Tis  a foretaste  of  heaven,  thought  Amanda.  She  heard  a deep 
sigh  behind  her.  She  turned  her  head  hastily,  and  perceived  a 
figure  standing  near,  which  bore  a strong  resemblance  to  Lord 
Mortimer.  She  was  alarmed.  She  could  not  believe  it  was  he. 
The  light  which  the  small  and  heavy  arched  window  admitted 
was  imperfect,  and  she  rose  from  the  couch  to  be  better  assured  it 
was  or  was  not  he.  A second  glance  convinced  her.  She  might 
have  believed  her  eyes  at  first.  Trembling  and  astonished,  she 
sunk  upon  a seat,  exclaiming,  ‘ Gracious  heaven  I what  can  have 
brought  Lord  Mortimer  hither  ? ’ 

He  made  no  reply,  but,  kneeling  before  her,  took  her  hands  in 
his,  pressed  them  to  his  forehead  and  lips,  and  laid  his  head  upon 
them. 

‘ Why,’  cried  Amanda,  unutterably  affected  by  the  emotions 
he  betrayed,  ‘why,  my  lord,  are  you  come  hither?’  ‘ To  try,’  Ke 
replied,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  ‘ whether  Miss  Fitzalan  will 
yetconsider  meas  afriend.’  ‘ That,  my  lord,’  said  she,  ‘depends 
upon  circumstances;  but  while  your  lordship  remains  in  your 
present  position,  what  they  are  I cannot  explain.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  instantly  rose  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 

‘Now, tell  me,’  said  he,  ‘ what  those  circumstances  are.’  ‘The 


288 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


first,  my  lord,  is  to  exculpate  my  father  in  the  opinion  of  Lord 
Cherbury,  and,  by  declaring  the  commencement  and  progress 
of  our  acquaintance,  eradicate  from  his  lordship’s  mind  the  in- 
jurious suspicions  he  entertained  against  him.  This,  perhaps 
you  will  say  is  useless,  considering  those  suspicions  can  no  longer 
wound  him ; but,  my  lord,  I deem  it  an  incumbent  duty  on  me 
to  remove  from  his  memory  the  obloquy  on  my  account  cast  om 
it.’  ‘ I promise  you  most  solemnly,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘you 
shall  be  obeyed.  This  is  a debt  of  justice,  which  I had  resolved  to 
pay  ere  I received  your  injunction  for  doing  so.  It  is  but  lately 
I heard  of  the  unjust  charges  made  against  him,  nor  do  I know 
now  what  fiend  gave  rise  to  them.’  ‘The  same,  perhaps,’  cried 
Amanda,  ‘ who  spread  such  complicated  snares  for  my  destruc- 
tion, and  involved  me  in  every  horror  but  that  which  proceeds 
from  conscious  guilt.  Oh,  my  lord  ! the  second  circumstance  I 
allude  to  is,  if  you  should  hear  m^  name  treated  with  scorn  and 
contempt  by  those  few — those  very  few— whom  I had  reason  to 
esteem,  and  to  believe  esteemed  me,  that  you  would  kindly  inter- 
pose in  my  justification,  and  say  I merited  not  the  aspersions  cast 
upon  me.  Believe  me  innocent,  and  you  will  easily  persuade 
others  I am  so.  You  shake  your  head,  as  much  as  to  say  you  can- 
not think  me  so,  after  the  proofs  you  have  seen  to  the  contrary. 
Ah,  my  lord  ! the  proofs  were  contrived  by  malice  and  treachery, 
to  ruin  me  in  the  estimation  of  my  friends,  and,  by  perfidy,  to 
force  me  into  a crime  of  which  I already  bear  the  appearance 
and  the  stigma.  Surely,  in  this  solemn  hour,  which  has  seen  my 
beloved  father  consigned  to  his  kindred  earth ; when,  with  a mind 
harassed  by  sorrow,  and  a body  worn-out  with  fatigue,  I feel  as 
if  standing  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  I should  be  the  most  aban- 
doned of  wretches,  if  I could  assert  my  innocence  without  the 
consciousness  of  really  possessing  it.  No,  my  lord ; by  such  a 
falsehood  I should  be  not  only  wicked,  but  foolish,  in  depriving 
myself  of  that  happiness  hereafter  which  will  so  fully  recompense 
my  present  miseries.*  ‘ O Amanda  ! ’ cried  Lord  Mortimer,  who 
had  been  walking  backward  and  forward  in  an  agitated  manner 
while  she  spoke,  ‘ you  would  almost  convince  me  against  the  evi- 
dence of  my  own  senses.  ‘Almost,’  she  repeated.  ‘ Then  I see, 
my  lord,  you  are  determined  to  disbelieve  me.  But  why,  since 
so  prejudiced  against  me,  have  you  come  hither  ? Was  it  merely 
to  be  assured  of  my  wretchedness  ? to  hear  me  say  that  I stand 
alone  in  the  world,  without  one  being  interested  about  my  wel- 
fare; that  my  present  asylum  is  bestowed  by  charity;  and  that,  if 
my  life  be  prolonged,  it  must  be  spent  in  struggling  against  des- 
titution, sorrow,  and  ill-fame,  to  procure  a subsistence? ’ ‘No,  no,’ 
exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  Hinging  himself  at  her  feet  ‘ never  shall 
you  suffer  such  misery.  Were  you  even  the  being  I was  tempted 


THE  CHiLDKEN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


28^^ 

to  think  you  some  time  ago,  never  would  Mortimer  suffer  thv. 
woman  his  heart  doated  on  to  feel  such  calamity.  I do  not,  I ca : 
not  believe  you  would  deceive  me.  There  is  an  irresistible*  elo- 
quence in  your  words  that  convinces  me  you  have  been  the  vic- 
tim of  treachery,  and  I its  dupe.  I cannot  give  you  a more  con- 
vincing proof  of  my  confidence  in  you  than  by  again  renewing, 
my  entreaties  to  have  one  fame,  one  fate,  one  fortune  ours.’ 

The  resolution  which  Amanda  had  forced  to  support  her  through 
the  painful  scene  she  guessed  would  ensue  the  moment  she  saw 
Lord  Mortimer  now  vanished,  and  she  burst  into  a flood  of  tears. 
She  saw  his  conduct  in  the  most  generous,  the  most  exalted  light. 
Notwithstanding  appearances  were  so  much  against  her,  he  was 
willing  to  rely  solely  on  her  own  asseveration  of  innocence,  andtc 
run  every  risk  on  her  account,  that  by  a union  he -might  shelter 
her  from  the  distress  of  her  present  situation.  But  while  her  sensL 
bility  was  affected  by  his  expressions,  her  pride  was  alarmed  lest 
he  should  impute  her  ardent  desire  of  vindicating  herself  to  the^ 
expectation  of  having  his  addresses  renewed.  In  broken  accents' 
she  endeavored  to  remove  such  an  idea,  if  it  had  arisen,  and  to- 
convince  him  that  all  further  intimacy  be  ween  them  must  be  ter- 
minated. Lord  Mortimer  ascribed  the  latter  part  of  her  speech  to^ 
the  resentment  she  felt  against  him  for  ever  entertaining  doubte 
of  her  worth.  She  desired  him  to  rise,  but  he  refused  till  he  wa^ 
forgiven.  ‘My  forgiveness  is  yours,  indeed,  my  lord,’  she  said., 

‘ though  your  suspicions  wounded  me  to  the  soul.  I can  scarcely 
wonder  at  your  entertaining  them,  when  I reflect  on  the  different 
situations  in  which  I was  found,  which,  if  your  lordship  can  spare 
a little  longer  time,  or  deem  it  worth  de  voting  to  such  a purpose, 
as  well  as  I am  able  I will  account  for  being  involved  in.  ’ Lord’ 
Mortimer  declared  his  ardent  desire  to  hear  those  particulars, 
which  nothing  but  a fear  of  fatiguing  or  agitating  her  could  have, 
prevented  his  before  expressing.  He  then  seated  himself  by  her,, 
and,  taking  her  cold  and  emaciated  hand  in  his,  listened  to  her 
little  narrative. 

She  briefly  informed  him  of  her  father’s  residing  in  Devonshire 
after  the  death  of  her  mother,  of  the  manner  in  which  they  became 
acquainted  with  Colonel  Belgrave,  of  his  having  ingratiated  him- 
self into  their  friendship  by  pretending  to  be  Oscar’s  friend,  and 
then  plunging  them  in  distress  when  he  found  they  not  only  re- 
sisted but  resented  his  villainous  designs.  She  related  the  artful 
manner  in  which  Lady  Greystock  had  drawn  her  from  her  father’s^ 
protection,  and  the  cold  and  insolent  reception  she  met  from  the 
marchioness  and  her  daughter,  when  introduced  by  the  above 
mentioned  lady ; the  enmity  the  marchioness  bore  her  father,  the 
sudden  alteration  in  her  behavior,  the  invitation  to  her  house  so» 
unexpected  and  unnecessary — all  tended  to  inspire  a belief  that 


:290 


Tillu  CIIILDRIM  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


she  was  concerned  in  contriving  Colonel  Belgrave’s  admittance 
to  the  house,  and  had  also  given  Lord  Cherbury  reason  to  suspect 
the  integrity  of  her  father. 

Lord  Mortimer  here  interrupted  Amanda,  to  mention  the  con- 
versation which  passed  between  him  and  Mrs.  Jane  in  the  hall. 

She  raised  her  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven  with  astonishment  at 
such  wickedness,  and  said,  ‘Though  she  always  suspected  the 
girl’s  integrity,  from  a certain  sycophant  air,  she  never  imagined 
she  could  be  capable  of  such  baseness.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  again  interrupted  her,  to  mention  what  Lady 
Greystock  had  told  him  concerning  Mrs.  Jennings,  as  also  what 
the  housekeeper  had  said  of  the  note  he  gave  her  for  Amanda. 

‘ Good  God  ! ’ said  Amanda,  ‘ when  I hear  of  all  the  enemies  I 
liad,  I almost  wonder  I escaped  so  well.’  She  then  resumed  her 
narrative,  accounted  for  the  dislike  Mrs.  Jennings  had  to  her,  and 
explained  the  way  in  which  she  was  entrapped  into  Colonel  Bel- 
grave’s  power,  the  almost  miraculous  manner  in  which  she  was 
freed  from  his  house,  the  friendship  she  received  from  Howel,  and 
the  situation  in  which  she  arrived  at  Castle  Carberry,  and  found 
her  father.  The  closing  scene  she  could  not  describe,  for  sighs 
,and  sobs  impeded  her  utterance.  Lord  Mortimer  gently  folded 
her  to  his  breast.  He  called  her  his  dear,  his  unfortunate,  his 
lovely  girl,  more  precious  than  ever  to  his  heart,  and  declared 
he  never  again  would  quit  her  till  she  had  given  him  a right  to 
espouse  her  quarrels,  and  secure  her  from  the  machinations  of  her 
enemies.  Her  warm  tears  wet  his  cheek  as  she  exclaimed,  ‘ that 
could  never  be.  ’ 

‘ My  promise  is  already  passed,  ’ cried  she.  ‘ That  which  was  given 
to  the  living  shall  not  be  forfeited  to  the  dead  ; and  this,  my  lord, 
by  design,  is  the  last  time  we  must  ever  meet.  ’ ‘ What  promise  ? ’ 

exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer.  ‘ Surely  no  one  could  be  so  inhuman 
as  to  extort  a promise  from  you  to  give  me  up  ? ’ ‘It  was  not  in- 
humanity extorted  it,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘ but  honor,  rectitude,  and 
discretion  ; without  forfeiting  those  never  can  I violate  it.  There 
is  but  one  pvent  could  make  me  acquiesce  in  your  wishes,  that  is, 
having  a fortune  adequate  to  yours  to  bring  you,  because  then 
Lord  Cherbury  could  ascribe  no  selfish  motive  to  my  conduct  ; but 
as  such  an  event  is  utterly  improbable,  I might  almost  say  impos- 
sible, it  is  certain  we  shall  never  be  united.  Any  further  inter- 
course between  us,  you  must  therefore  be  convinced,  would  injure 
me.  Disturb  not,  therefore,  my  lord,  my  retirement  ; but  ere 
you  depart,  allow  me  to  assure  you  you  have  lightened  the  weight 
on  my  heart  by  crediting  what  I have  said.  Should  I not  recover 
from  the^ illness  which  now  preys  upon  me,  it  will  cheer  my  de- 
parting spirit  to  know  you  think  me  innocent  ; and,  if  I live,  it 
will  support  me  through  many  difficulties,  and  often,  perhaps, 


THE  CHILDKEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


291 


after  the  toils  of  a busy  day,  shall  I comfort  myself  by  reflecting' 
that  those  I esteem,  if  they  think  of  me,  it  is  with  their  wonted 
regard.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  affected  by  the  manner  in  which  she  spoke,, 
his  eyes  began  to  glisten,  and  he  was  again  declaring  he  would 
not  suffer  her  to  sacrifice  happiness  at  the  shrine  of  a too  scrupu- 
lous and  romantic  generosity,  when  the  door  opened  and  the 
prioress  and  Sister  Mary  (who  had  been  detained  in  the  chapel  by 
a long  discourse  from  the  priest)  entered,  bearing  lights. 

Lord  Mortimer  started  in  much  confusion,  retreated  to  one  of 
the  windows,  and  drew  out  his  handkerchief  to  conceal  the  emo- 
tions Amanda  had  excited.  She  was  unable  to  speak  to  the 
prioress  and  Sister  Mary,  who  stared  round  them,  and  then  at 
each  other,  not  certain  whether  they  should  advance  or  retreat. 
Lord  Mortimer  in  a few  moments  recovered  his  composure,  and^, 
advancing  to  the  prioress,  apologized  for  his  intrusion  into  her 
apartment  ; but  said  he  had  the  honor  of  being  a friend  of  Miss 
Fitzalan’s,  and  could  not  resist  his  wish  of  inquiring  in  person  after 
her  health  as  soon  as  he  arrived  in  the  country. 

The  prioress,  who  had  once  seen  a good  deal  of  the  polite  world,, 
received  his  address  with  ease  and  complaisance.  Sister  Mary 
went  over  to  Amanda,  and  found  her  weak,  trembling,  and  weep- 
ing. She  expressed  the  utmost  concern  at  seeing  her  in  such  a 
situation,  and  immediately  procured  her  a glass  of  wine,  which 
she  insisted  on  her  taking.  The  lights  now  gave  Lord  Mortimer 
an  opportunity  of  contemplating  the  depredations  which  grief 
and  sickness  had  made  upon  her.  Her  pale  and  sallow  complex- 
ion, her  heavy  and  sunken  eyes,  struck  him  with  horror.  He 
could  not  conceal  his  feelings.  ‘ Gracious  Heaven  ! ’ cried  he, 
going  to  the  couch  and  taking  her  hand,  ‘ I fear  you  are  very  ill.^ 

She  looked  mournfully  in  his  face,  without  speaking;  but  this" 
look  was  sufiicient  to  assure  him  he  was  not  mistaken.  The 
efforts  she  had  made  to  converse  with  him,  and  the  yet  greater 
efforts  she  made  to  banish  him  forever  from  her,  had  exhausted 
her;  after  the  various  miseries  she  had  gone  through,  how  sooth- 
ing to  her  soul  would  have  been  the  attentions  of  Lord  Mortimer, 
how  pleasing,  how  delightful,  the  asylum  she  should  have  found 
in  his  arms  ! But  no  temptation,  no  distress,  she  resolved,  should 
ever  make  her  disobey  the  injunction  of  her  adored  father. 

‘ She  is  very  bad  indeed,’ said  Sister  Mary,  ‘ and  we  must  get 
her  to  bed  as  soon  as  possible.’  ‘ She  requires  rest  and  repose  in- 
deed,’ said  Lord  Mortimer  ; ‘but  tell  me,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan 
[taking  her  hand],  if  I have  these  good  ladies'  permission  for  call- 
ing here  to-morrow,  will  you,  if  able  to  rise,  see  me  ? ’ ‘I  cannot,, 
indeed,’  said  Amanda;  ‘I  have  already  declared  this  must 
be  our  last  interview,  and  I shall  not  retract  what  I have  saidJ 


^92 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Then,’ exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  regardless,  or  rather  forgetful^ 
of  those  who  heard  him,  from  the  agitation  and  warmth  of  his 
feelings,  ‘ I shall,  in  one  respect  at  least,  accuse  you  of  dissimu- 
lation, that  of  feigning  a regard  for  me  you  never  felt.’  ‘ Such 
^n  accusation  is  now  of  little  consequence,’  replied  Amanda  ; 
^ perhaps  you  had  better  think  it  just.’  ‘ Cruel,  inexorable  girl,  to 
refuse  seeing  me,  to  wish  to  have  the  anxiety  which  now  preys 
upon  my  heart  prolonged  ! ’ 

‘Young  man,’ said  the  prioress,  in  an  accent  of  displeasure, 
^seeing  the  tears  streaming  down  Amanda’s  cheeks,  ‘respect  her 
sorrows.’ 

‘ Respect  them,  madam?’  repeated  he.  ‘ Oh,  Heaven!  I respect, 
I venerate  them  ; but  will  you,  my  dear  lady,  when  Miss  Fitzalan 
is  able,  prevail  on  her  to  communicate  the  particulars  of  our 
acquaintance  ; and  will  you  tlien  become  my  advocate,  and 
persuade  her  to  receive  my  visits  ? ’ ‘ Impossible,  sir,  ’ said  the 

prioress ; ‘ I shall  never  attempt  to  desire  a larger  share  of  confi- 
dence from  Miss  Fitzalan  than  she  desires  to  bestow  upon  me. 
From  my  knowledge  of  her  I am  convinced  her  conduct  will  be 
always  guided  by  discretion ; she  has  greatly  obliged  me  by  choos- 
ing this  humble  retreat  for  her  residence  ; she  has  put  hei’self 
under  my  protection,  and  I shall  endeavor  to  fulfill  that  sacred 
trust  by  securing  her  from  any  molestation.’  ‘ Well,  madam,’ 
«aid  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘ I fiatter  myself  Miss  Fitzalan  will  do  me 
justice  in  declaring  my  visits  proceeded  from  wishes,  which, 
though  she  may  disappoint,  she  cannot  disapprove.  I shall  no 
longer  intrude  upon  your  time  or  hers,  but  will  still  hope  I shall 
find  you  both  less  indexible.’ 

He  took  up  his  hat,  he  approached  the  door  ; but  when  he 
.^lanced  at  Amanda,  he  could  not  depart  without  speaking  to  her, 
and  again  went  to  the  couch. 

He  entreated  her  to  compose  and  not  exert  herself  ; he  desired 
her  forgiveness  for  any  warmth  he  had  betrayed,  and  he  whispered 
to  her  that  all  his  earthly  happiness  depended  on  her  restoration 
to  health,  and  her  becoming  his.  He  insisted  on  her  now  giving 
him  her  hand  as  a pledge  of  amity  between  them.  She  complied : 
but  when,  presuming  on  this,  he  again  asked  her  consent  to  repeat 
his  visits,  he  found  her  inexorable  as  ever,  and  retired  with, 
if  not  a displeased,  a disappointed  countenance.  Sister  Mary 
attended  him  from  the  apartment.  At  the  door  of  the  convent  he 
requested  her  to  walk  a few  paces  from  it  with  him,  saying 
he  wanted  to  speak  to  her.  She  consented,  and  remembering  he 
was  the  person  who  frightened  her  one  evening  among  the  ruins, 
determined  now^  if  she  had  a good  opportunity,  to  ask  what  had 
then  brought  him  thither. 

Lord  Mortimer  knew  the  poverty  of  the  convent,  and  feared 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


293 


Amanda  might  want  many  things,  or  its  inhabitants  be  distressed 
to  procure  them  for  her  ; he  therefore  pulled  out  a purse  and  pre- 
senting it  to  Sister  Mary,  requested  she  would  apply  it  for  Miss: 
Fitzalan's  use,  without  mentioning  anything  about  it  to  her. 
Sister  Mary  shook  the  purse.  ‘ O Jesu  Maria/  exclaimed  she,, 

‘ how  heavy  it  is  ! ’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  retiring,  when,  catching  hold  of  him,  she 
cried,  ‘ Stay,  stay;  I have  a word  or  two  to  say  to  you.  I wonder 
how  much  there  is  in  this  purse  ? ’ 

Lord  Mortimer  smiled.  ‘ If  not  enough  for  the  present  erner- 
gencies,’  said  he,  ‘it  shall  soon  be  replenished.’ 

Sister  Mary  sat  down  on  a tombstone,  and  very  deliberately 
counted  the  money  into  her  lap.  ‘ Oh  ! mercy,’  said  she.  ‘ I 
never  saw  many  guineas  together  before  in  all  my  life  ! ’ 

Again  Lord  Mortimer  smiled,  and  was  retiring  ; but  again  stop- 
ping him,  she  returned  the  gold  into  the  purse,  and  declared^ 
‘ she  neither  would  nor  durst  keep  it.  ’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  provoked  at  this  declaration,  and  without 
replying  to  it  walked  on.  She  ran  nimbly  after  him,  and  drop- 
ping the  purse  at  his  feet,  was  out  of  sight  in  a moment.  When 
she  returned  to  the  prioress’s  apartment,  she  related  the  incident,, 
and  took  much  merit  to  herself  for  acting  so  prudently.  The 
prioress  commended  her  very  much,  and  poor  Amanda,  with  a 
faint  voice,  said,  ‘ she  had  acted  quite  right.’ 

A little  room  inside  the  prioress’s  chamber  was  prepared  for 
Amanda,  into  which  she  was  now  conveyed,  and  the  good-natured 
Sister  Mary  brought  her  own  bed,  and  laid  it  beside  hers. 


CHAPTER  XXXY. 

With  dirges  due,  and  sad  array. 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  I saw  him  home. 

It  will  now  be  necessary  to  account  for  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Lord  Mortimer  at  the  convent.  Our  reader  may  recollect  that 
we  left  him  in  London,  in  the  deepest  affliction  for  the  supposed 
perfidy  of  Amanda— an  affliction  which  knew  no  diminution  front 
time;  neither  the  tenderness  of  his  aunt,  Lady  Martha  Dormer,, 
nor  the  kind  consideration  his  father  showed  for  him,  who,  for  the 
present,  ceasei  to  importune  him  about  Lady  Euphrasia,  could 
have  any  lenient  effect  upon  him — he  pined  in  thought,  and  felt 
a distaste  to  all  society.  He  at  last  began  to  think,  that  though 
Amanda  had  been  unhappily  led  astray,  she  might,  ere  this,  have 
repented  of  her  error,  and  forsaken  Colonel  Belgrave.  To  know 
whether  she  had  done  so,  or  whether  she  could  be  prevailed  upon  to 


!294 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


^ive  him  up,  he  believed,  would  be  an  alleviation  of  his  sorrows. 
No  sooner  had  he  persuaded  himself  of  this  than  he  determined 
on  going  to  Ireland,  without  delay,  to  visit  Captain  Fitzalan,  and, 
if  she  was  not  returned  to  his  protection,  advise  with  him  about 
some  method  of  restoring  her  to  it. 

He  told  Lord  Cherbury  he  thought  an  excursion  into  Wales 
•would  be  of  service  to  him.  His  lordship  agreed  in  thinking  it 
might,  and,  secretly  delighted  that  all  danger  relative  to  Amanda 
was  over,  gladly  concurred  in  whatever  could  please  his  son,  flat- 
tering himself  that,  on  his  return  to  London,  he  would  no  longer 
raise  any  objections  to  an  alliance  with  the  fair  Scotch  heiress. 

Lord  Mortimer  traveled  with  as  much  expedition  to  Holyhead 
as  if  certain  that  perfect  happiness,  not  a small  alleviation  of 
misery,  would  be  the  recompense  of  his  journey.  He  concealed 
from  his  aunt  the  real  motives  which  actuated  him  to  it,  blushing, 
«even  to  himself,  at  the  weakness  which  he  still  felt  relative  to 
Amanda.  When  he  crossed  the  water  he  again  set  off  post,  at- 
tended on  horseback  only  by  his  own  man.  Within  one  mile  of 
Castle  Carberry  he  met  the  little  mournful  procession  approaching, 
which  was  attending  poor  Fitzalan  to  his  last  home.  The  car- 
rage  stopped  to  let  them  pass,  and  in  the  last  of  the  group  he  per- 
ceived Johnaten,  who,  at  the  same  moment,  recognized  him. 
Johnaten,  with  much  surprise  in  his  countenance,  stepped  up  to 
the  carriage,  and,  after  bowing,  and  humbly  hoping  his  lordship 
was  well  with  a melancholy  shake  of  his  head  informed  him  whose 
remains  he  was  following. 

‘ Captain  Fitzalan  dead  ! ’ repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  with  a face 
as  pale  as  death,  and  a faltering  voice,  while  his  heart  sunk  with- 
in him  at  the  idea  that  his  father  was,  in  some  degree,  accessory 
to  the  fatal  event  ; for,  just  before  he  left  London,  Lord  Cherbury 
had  informed  him  of  the  letter  he  wrote  to  Fitzalan,  and  this,  he 
believed,  joined  to  his  own  immediate  family  misfortunes,  had 
precipitated  him  from  the  world.  ‘Captain  Fitzalan  dead! ’he 
exclaimed  ‘ Yes,  and  please  you,  my  lord,’  said  Johnaten,  wip- 
ing away  a tear,  ‘he  has  not  left  a better  or  a braver  man 
behind  him.  Poor  gentleman,  the  world  pressed  hard  upon  him.’ 
‘ Had  he  no  tender  friend  about  him  ? ’ asked  Lord  Mor- 
timer. ‘ Were  neither  of  his  children  with  him  ? ’ ‘ Oh ! yes,  my 
lord,  poor  Miss  Amanda.’  ‘She  was  with  him  !’  said  Lord 
Mortimer,  in  an  eager  accent.  ‘Yes,  my  lord,  she  .returned  here 
about  ten  days  ago,  but  so  sadly  altered  I think  she  won’t  stay 
long  behind  him.  Poor  thing,  she  is  going  fast,  indeed;  and  the 
more’s  the  pity,  for  she  is  a sweet  creature.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  inexpressibly  shocked.  He  wished  to  hide 
liis  emotions,  and  waved  his  hand  to  Johnaten  to  depart;  but 
Johnaten  either  did  not,  or  would  not,  understand  the  motion^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


295 


and  he  was  obliged,  in  broken  accents,  to  say,  ‘ he  would  no 
longer  detain  him.’ 

The  return  of  Amanda  was  to  him  a conviction  that  she  had 
seen  her  error  in  its  true  light.  He  pictured  to  himself  the  affect- 
ing scene  which  must  have  ensued  between  a dying  father  and  a 
penitent  daughter,  so  loved,  so  valued,  as  was  Amanda;  her 
situation,  when  she  received  his  forgiveness  and  benediction ; he 
represented  her  to  himself  as  at  once  bewailing  the  loss  of  her 
father,  and  her  offenses ; endeavoring,  by  prayers,  by  tears,  by 
sighs,  to  obliterate  them  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  and  render  herself 
fit  to  receive  its  awful  fiat. 

He  heard  she  was  dying ; his  soul  recoiled  at  the  idea  of  seeing 
her  shrouded  in  her  native  clay,  and  yet  he  could  not  help  be- 
lieving this  the  only  peaceful  asylum  she  could  find,  to  be  freed 
from  the  shafts  of  contempt  and  malice  of  the  world.  He  trem- 
bled lest  he  should  not  behold  the  lovely  penitent  while  she  was 
capable  of  observing  him ; to  receive  a last  adieu,  though  dreadful, 
would  yet,  he  thought,  lighten  the  horrors  of  an  eternal  separation, 
and  perhaps,  too,  it  would  be  some  comfort  to  her  departing  spirit 
to  know  from  him  he  had  pardoned  her ; and  conscious,  surely,  he 
thought  to  himself,  she  must  be  of  needing  pardon  from  him,  whom 
she  had  so  long  imposed  on  by  a specious  pretext  of  virtue.  He 
had  heard  from  Lord  Cherbury  that  Captain  Fitzalan  had  quitted 
the  castle;  he  knew  not,  therefore,  at  present,  where  to  find 
Amanda,  nor  did  he  choose  to  make  any  inquiries  till  he  again  saw 
John  a ten. 

As  soon  as  the  procession  was  out  of  sight,  he  alighted  from  the 
carriage,  and  ordering  his  man  to  discharge  it,  on  arriving  at 
Castle  Carberry,  he  took  a path  across  the  field,  which  brought 
him  to  the  side  of  the  churchyard  where  Fitzalan  was  to  be  in- 
terred. 

He  reached  it  just  as  the  coffin  was  lowering  into  the  earth.  A 
yew-tree,  growing  by  the  wall  against  which  he  leaned,  hid  him 
from  observation.  He  heard  many  of  the  rustics  mentioning  the 
merits  of  the  deceased  in  terms  of  warm,  though  artless,  com- 
mendation, and  he  saw  Johnateii  receiving  the  hat  and  sword 
(which,  as  military  trophies,  he  had  laid  upon  the  coffin),  with  a 
ffood  of  tears. 

When  the  churchyard  was  cleared,  he  stepped  across  the 
broken  wall  to  the  silent  mansion  of  Fitzalan.  The  scene  was 
wild  and  dreary,  and  a lowering  evening  seemed  in  unison  with 
the  sad  objects  around.  Lord  Mortimer  was  sunk  in  the  deepest 
despondence.  He  felt  awfully  convinced  of  the  instability  of 
human  attainments,  and  the  vanity  of  human  pursuits,  not  only 
from  the  ceremony  he  had  just  witnessed,  but  his  own  situation. 
The  fond  hopes  of  his  heart,  the  gay  expectations  of  his  youth, 


296 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


and  the  hilarity  of  his  soul,  were  blasted,  never,  he  feared,  to  re» 
vive.  Virtue,  rank,  and  fortune — advantages  so  highly  prized 
by  mankind— were  unable  to  give  him  comfort,  to  remove  the 
malady  of  his  heart,  to  administer  one  oblivious  antidote  to  a 
mind  deceased. 

‘Peace  to  thy  shade,  thou  unfortunate  soldier,’  exclaimed  he, 
after  standing  some  time  by  the  grave  with  folded  arms.  ‘ Peace 
to  thy  shade — peace  which  shall  reward  thee  for  a life  of  toil  and 
trouble.  Happy  should  I have  deemed  myself,  had  it  been  my 
lot  to  have  lightened  thy  grief,  or  cheered  thy  closing  hours- 
But  those  who  were  dearer  to  thee  than  existence  I may  yet  serve, 
and  thus  make  the  only  atonement  now  in  my  power  for  the  in- 
justice, I fear,  was  done  thee.  Thy  Amanda  and  thy  gallant  son 
shall  be  my  care ; and  his  path,  I trust,  it  will  be  in  my  power  to 
smooth,  through  life.’ 

A tear  fell  from  Lord  Mortimer  upon  the  grave,  and  he  turned 
mournfully  from  it  toward  Castle  Carberry.  Here  Johnaten  was  ar- 
rived before  him,  and  had  already  a large  fire  lighted  in  the  dressing 
room  poor  Amanda,  on  coming  to  the  castle,  had  chosen  for  herself. 
Johnaten  fixed  on  this  for  Lord  Mortimer,  as  the  parlors  had  been 
shut  up  ever  since  Captain  Fitzalan’s  departure,  and  could  not  be 
put  in  any  order  till  the  next  day ; but  it  was  the  worst  place  Lord 
Mortimer  could  have  entered,  as  not  only  itself  but  everj^thing  in 
it  reminded  him  of  Amanda  ; and  the  grief  it  excited  at  his  first 
entrance  was  so  violent  as  to  alarm  not  only  his  man  (who  was 
spreading  a table  with  refreshments),  but  Johnaten,  who  was  as- 
sisting him.  He  soon  checked  it,  however;  but  when  he  again 
looked  around  the  room,  and  beheld  it  ornamented  with  works 
done  by  Amanda,  he  could  scarcely  prevent  another  burst  of  grief 
as  violent  as  the  first. 

He  now  learned  Amanda’s  residence ; and  so  great  was  his  im- 
patience to  see  her  that,  apprehensive  the  convent  would  soon  be 
closed,  he  set  off,  fatigued  as  he  was,  without  recruiting  himself 
with  any  refreshment.  He  intended  to  ask  for  one  of  the  ladies 
of  St.  Catherine’s,  and  entreat  her,  if  Amanda  was  then  in  a 
situation  to  be  seen,  to  [announce  his  arrival  to  her  ; but  after 
rapping  repeatedly  with  a rattan  against  the  door,  the  only  per- 
son who  appeared  to  him  was  a servant  girl.  Prom  her  he  learned 
the  ladies  were  all  in  the  chapel,  and  that  Miss  Fitzalan  was  in  the 
prioress’s  apartment.  He  asked,  ‘ Was  she  too  ill  to  be  seen  ? ’ 
The  girl  replied,  ‘ No  ’ — for  having  only  entered  the  room  to 
leave  the  kettle  in  it,  at  a time  when  Amanda  was  composed,  she 
imagined  she  was  very  well.  Lord  Mortimer  then  told  her  his 
name,  and  desired  her  to  [go  up  to  Miss  Fitzalan  and  inquire 
whether  she  would  see  him.  The  girl  attempted  not  to  move. 
She  was  in  reality  so  struck  of  a heap,  by  hearing  that  she  had 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


297 


been  talking  to  a lord,  that  she  knew  not  whether  she  was  standing 
on  her  head  or  her  heels.  Lord  Mortimer,  imputing  her  silence 
to  disinclination  to  comply  with  his  request,  put  a guinea  into 
her  hand,  and  entreated  her  to  be  expeditious.  This  restored  her 
to  animation,  but  ere  she  reached  the  room  she  forgot  his  title, 
and  being  ashamed  to  deliver  a blundering  message  to  Miss  Fitz- 
alan,  or  to  appear  stupid  to  Lord  Mortimer,  she  returned  to  him, 
pretending  she  had  delivered  his  message,  and  that  he  might  go 
up.  She  showed  him  the  door,  and  when  he  entered  he  imputed 
the  silence  of  Amanda,  and  her  not  moving,  to  the  effects  of  her 
grief.  He  advanced  to  the  couch,  and  was  not  a little  shocked  on 
seeing  her  eyes  closed — concluding  from  this  that  she  had  fainted; 
but  her  easy  respiration  soon  convinced  him  that  this  was  a mis- 
take, and  he  immediately  concluded  that  the  girl  had  deceived  him. 
He  leaned  over  her  till  she  began  to  stir,  and  then  retreated  be- 
hind her,  lest  his  presence,  on  her  first  awaking,  should  alarm 
her. 

What  took  place  in  the  interview  between  them  has  already 
been  related.  Notwithstanding  appearances  were  so  much 
against  her,  and  no  explanation  had  ensued  relative  to  them, 
from  the  moment  she  asserted  her  innocence  with  solemnity 
he  could  no  longer  doubt  it  ; and  yielding  at  once  to  his  con- 
viction, to  his  love,  to  his  pity  for  her,  he  again  renewed  his 
overtures  for  a union.  Hearing  of  the  stratagems  laid  for  her 
destruction,  the  dangers  she  had  escaped,  the  distresses  she 
had  experienced,  made  him  more  anxious  than  ever  for  com- 
pleting it,  that  by  his  constant  protection  he  might  secure  her 
from  similar  trials,  and  by  his  tenderness  and  care  restore  her 
to  health,  peace,  and  happiness.  He  longed  for  the  period  of 
her  triumphing  over  the  perfidious  marchioness,  and  the  detest- 
able Lady  Euphrasia,  by  being  raised  to  that  station  they  had 
so  long  attempted  to  prevent  her  attaining,  and  thus  proving 
to  them  that  virtue,  sooner  or  later,  will  counteract  the  designs 
of  vice.  He  felt  a degree  of  rapture  at  the  idea  of  his  being 
no  longer  obliged  to  regret  the  ardent,  the  unbated  affection 
he  felt  for  her.  His  transports  were  somewhat  checked  when 
she  solemnly  declared  a union  between  them  impossible,  and 
forbade  his  seeing  her  again.  He  was  piqued  by  the  steadi- 
ness with  which  she  repeated  this  resolution,  but  her  present 
weak  state  prevented  his  betraying  any  resentment,  and  he 
flattered  himself  he  would  be  able  to  conquer  her  obstinacy. 
He  could  not  now,  indeed,  despair  of  any  event  after  the  un- 
expected restoration  of  Amanda  to  his  esteem,  and  the  revival 
of  those  hopes  of  felicity,  which,  in  the  certainty  of  having  lost 
her,  had  faded  away.  He  returned,  as  Johnaten  said,  an  altered 
man,  to  the  castle.  He  no  longer  experienced  horror  at  entering 


298 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


the  dressing  room  which  displayed  so  many  vestiges  of  his 
Amanda’s  taste. 

He  resolved  on  an  immediate  union  as  the  surest  proof  he 
could  give  her  of  his  perfect  confidence  in  her  sincerity,  not 
allowing  himself  to  suppose  she  would  continue  firm  in  the  reso- 
lution she  had  recently  avowed  to  him.  He  then  intended  set- 
ting off  for  London,  and  sparing  neither  time,  trouble,  nor  ex- 
pense, to  obtain  from  the  inferior  agents  in  the  plot  laid  against 
her,  a full  avowal  of  the  part  they  had  themselves  acted  in  it,  and 
all  they  knew  relative  to  those  performed  by  others.  This  was 
not  designed  for  his  own  satisfaction.  He  wanted  no  confirma- 
tion of  what  Amanda  asserted,  as  his  proposal  to  marry  her  im- 
mediately demonstrated  ; it  was  to  cover  with  confusion  those 
who  had  meditated  her  destruction,  and  add  to  the  horrors  they 
would  experience  when  they  found  her  emerging  from  obscurity — 
not  as  Miss  Fitzalan,  but  as  Lady  Mortimer.  Such  proofs  of  her 
innocence  would  also  prevent  malice  from  saying  he  was  the 
dupe  of  art,  and  he  was  convinced,  for  both  their  sakes,  it  was 
requisite  to  procure  them.  He  would  then  avow  his  marriage, 
return  for  his  wife,  introduce  her  to  his  friends,  and,  if  his  father 
kept  up  any  resentment  against  them  longer  than  he  expected,  he 
knew  in  Lady  Martha  Dormer’s  house,  and  at  Tudor  Hall, 
he  would  find  not  only  an  eligible,  but  pleasant  residence.  Those 
delightful  schemes  kept  him  awake  half  the  night,  and  when  he 
fell  asleep  it  was  only  to  dream  of  happiness  and  Amanda. 

In  the  morning,  notwithstanding  the  prohibition  he  had  re- 
ceived to  the  contrary,  he  went  to  inquire  how  she  was,  and  to 
try  and  see  her.  The  girl  who  had  answered  his  repeated  knocks 
the  preceding  evening  appeared,  and  told  him  Miss  Fitzalan  was 
very  bad.  He  began  to  think  that  this  must  be  a pretext  to  avoid 
seeing  him,  and  to  come  at  the  truth  was  slipping  a bribe  into  her 
hand,  when  Sister  Mary,  who  had  been  watching  them  from 
an  adjoining  room,  appeared  and  stopped  this  measure.  She  re- 
peated what  the  girl  had  just  said,  and,  in  addition  to  it,  declared 
that  even  if  Miss  Fitzalan  was  up  she  would  not  see  him,  and  that 
he  must  come  no  more  to  St.  Catherine’s,  as  both  Miss  Fitzalan 
and  the  prioress  would  resent  such  conduct  exceedingly  ; and 
that,  if  he  wanted  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  the  former,  he 
might  easily  send  a servant,  and  it  would  be  much  better  done 
than  to  come  frisking  over  there  every  moment. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  seriously  displeased  with  this  unceremoni- 
ous speech.  ‘So,  I suppose,’  cried  he,  ‘you  want  to  make  a real 
nun  of  Miss  Fitzalan,  and  to  keep  her  from  all  conversation.’ 

‘ And  a happy  creature'she  would  be  were  she  to  become  one  of 
us,’  replied  Sister  Mary  ; ‘ and  as  to  keeping  her  from  conversa- 
tion, she  might  have  as  much  as  she  pleased  with  anyone.  In 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


299 


deed,  I believe  the  poor  thing*  likes  you  well  enough  ; the  more’s 
her  misfortune  for  doing  so.’  ‘I  thank  you,  madam,’  cried  Lord 
Mortimer  ; ‘ I suppose  it  one  of  your  vows  to  speak  truth  ; if  so, 
I must  acknowledge  you  keep  it  religiously.’  ‘ I have  just  heard 
her,’  proceeded  Sister  Mary,  without  minding  what  he  had  said, 
^ tell  the  prioress  a long  story  about  you  and  herself,  by  which  I 
find  it  was  her  father’s  desire  she  should  liave  nothing  more  to  say 
to  you,  and  I dare  say  the  poor  gentleman  had  good  reasons  for 
doing  so.  I beg,  my  lord,  you  will  come  no  more  here,  and,  in- 
deed, I think  it  was  a shame  for  you  to  give  money  to  the  simple- 
ton who  answered  you.  Why,  it  is  enough  to  turn  the  girl’s 
head,  and  set  her  mad  after  one  fal-lal  or  other.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  could  not  depart  without  an  effort  to  win  Sister 
Mary  over  to  his  favor,  and  engage  her  to  try  and  persuade  Miss 
Fitzalan  to  permit  his  visits,  but  she  was  inflexible  ; he  then  en- 
treated to  know  if  Amanda  was  so  ill  as  to  be  unable  to  rise.  She 
assured  him  she  was,  and,  as  some  little  consolation  to  the  distress 
she  perceived  this  assurance  gave  him,  said  he  might  send  when 
he  pleased  to  inquire  after  her  health,  and  she  would  take  care  to 
answer  the  messenger  herself. 

Lord  Mortimer  began  now  to  be  seriously  alarmed  lest  Captain 
Fitzalan  had  prevailed  on  his  daughter  to  make  a solemn  renunci- 
ation of  him.  If  this  was  the  case,  he  knew  nothing  could  pre- 
vail on  her  to  break  her  promise.  He  was  half  distracted  with 
doubt  and  anxiety,  which  were  scarcely  supportable  when  he  re- 
flected that  they  could  not  for  some  time  be  satisfied,  since,  even 
if  he  wrote  to  her  for  that  purpose,  she  could  not  at  present  be 
able  to  answer  his  letter  ; again  he  felt  convinced  of  the  insta- 
bility of  earthly  happiness,  and  the  close  connection  there  has 
ever  been  between  pleasure  and  pain. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Thy  presence  only  ’tis  can  make  me  blest, 

Heal  my  unquiet  mind,  and  tune  my  soul. — Otwat. 

The  fatigue,  distress,  and  agitation  of  Amanda  could  no  longer 
be  struggled  with ; she  sunk  beneath  their  violence,  and  for  a week 
was  confined  to  her  bed  by  the  fever  which  had  seized  her  in  Eng- 
land, and  ever  since  lurked  in  her  veins.  The  whole  sisterhood, 
who  took  it  in  turn  to  attend  her,  vied  with  each  other  in  kind- 
ness and  care  to  the  poor  invalid.  Their  efforts  for  her  recovery 
were  aided  by  a skillful  physician  from  the  next  town,  who  called, 
without  being  sent  for,  at  the  convent.  He  said  he  had  known 
Captain  Fitzalan,  and  that,  hearing  that  Miss  Fitzalan  was  indis' 
posed,  he  had  come  in  hopes  he  might  be  ot  service  to  the  daugh 


300 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


ter  of  a man  he  so  much  esteemed.  He  would  accept  of  no  fee, 
and  the  prioress,  who  was  a woman  of  sagacity,  suspected,  as  well 
as  Amanda,  that  he  came  by  the  direction  of  Lord  Mortimer. 
Nor  were  they  mistaken,  for,  distracted  by  apprehensions  about 
her,  he  had  taken  this  method  of  lightening  his  fears ; flattering 
hinself,  by  the  excellent  advice  he  had  procured,  her  recovery 
would  be  much  expedited,  and,  of  course,  his  suspense  at  least  ter- 
minated. The  doctor  did  not  withdraw  his  visits  when  Amanda 
was  able  to  rise  ; he  attended  her  punctually,  and  often  paid  her 
long  visits,  which  were  of  inflnite  service  to  her  spirits,  as  he  was 
a man  of  much  information  and  cheerfulness.  In  a few  days  she 
was  removed  from  her  chamber  into  a pleasant  room  below  stairs, 
which  opened  into  the  garden,  where,  leaning  on  the  friendly 
doctor’s  arm,  or  one  of  the  nuns’,  she  walked  at  different  times  a 
few  minutes  each  day.  Lord  Mortimer,  on  hearing  this,  thought 
he  might  now  solicit  an  interview,  and  accordingly  wrote  for 
that  purpose  : 

• TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

Lord  Mortimer  presents  his  compliments  to  Miss  Fitzalan;  flatters  himself  she  will 
allow  him  personally  to  express  the  sincere  happiness  her  restoration  to  health  has 
afforded  him.  He  cannot  think  she  will  refuse  so  reasonable  a request.  He  is  almost 
convinced  she  would  not  hesitate  a moment  in  granting  it,  could  she  form  an  idea  of 
the  misery  he  has  experienced  on  her  account,  and  the  anxiety  he  feels,  and  must  con- 
tinue to  feel,  till  some  expressions  in  the  last  interview  are  explained. 

Castle  Carberry,  \0th  May. 

This  letter  greatly  distressed  Amanda.  She  had  hoped  the 
pain  of  again  rejecting  his  visits  and  requests  would  have  been 
spared  her.  She  guessed  at  the  expressions  he  alluded  to  in  his  let- 
ter ; they  were  those  she  had  dropped  relative  to  her  promise  to  her 
father,  and  from  the  impetuous  and  tender  feelings  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer she  easily  conceived  the  agony  he  would  experience  when  he- 
found  this  promise  inviolable.  She  felt  more  for  his  distress  than 
her  own.  Her  heart,  seasoned  in  the  school  of  adversity,  could  bear 
its  sorrows  with  calmness ; but  this  was  not  his  case,  and  she  paid  the 
tribute  of  tears  to  a love  so  fervent,  so  faithful,  and  so  hopeless. 

She  then  requested  Sister  Mary  to  acquaint  his  messenger  that 
she  received  no  visits;  that,  as  she  was  tolerably  recovered,  she  en- 
treated his  lordship  would  not  take  the  trouble  of  continuing  his 
inquiries  about  her  health,  or  to  send  her  any  more  written  mes- 
sages, as  she  was  unable  to  answer  them.  The  prioress,  who  was 
present  when  she  received  the  letter,  commended  her  exceed- 
ingly for  the  fortitude  and  discretion  she  had  manifested. 
Amanda  had  deemed  it  necessary  to  inform  her,  after  the  conver- 
sation she  heard  between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer,  of  the  terms  on 
which  they  stood  with  each  other ; and  the  prioress,  who  doubted 
whether  his  lordship  was  in  reality  as  honorable  as  he  professed 
himself,  thought  Amanda  on  the  sure  side  in  declining  his  visits. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


301 


The  next  morning’  the  doctor  called  as  usual.  He  told  Amanda 
he  had  brought  her  an  entertaining  book,  for  no  such  thing 
could  be  procured  at  St.  Catherine’s,  and,  as  she  had  expressed 
her  regret  at  this,  from  the  time  she  had  been  able  to  read  he  had 
supplied  her  from  his  library,  which  was  extensive  and  well 
chosen. 

He  did  not  present  it  to  her  till  he  was  retiring,  and  then  said, 
with  a significant  smile,  she  would  find  it  contained  something 
worthy  of  her  particular  attention.  Amanda  was  alone,  and  im- 
mediately opened  it.  Great  was  her  astonishment  when  a letter 
dropped  from  it  into  her  lap.  She  snatched  it  up,  and,  perceiving 
the  direction  in  Lord  Mortimer’s  hand,  she  hesitated  whether  she 
should  open  a letter  conveyed  in  this  manner;  but  to  return  it  un- 
opened was  surely  a slight  Lord  Mortimer  merited  not,  and  she 
broke  the  seal  with  a trembling  hand  and  a palpitating  heart : 

Unkind  Amanda,  to  compel  me  to  use  stratagems  in  writing  to  you  and  destroy  the 
delightful  hopes  which  had  sprung  in  my  soul,  at  the  prospect  of  being  about  to  re- 
ceive a reward  for  my  sufferings.  Am  I ever  to  be  involved  in  doubts  and  perplexity 
on  your  account  ? Am  I ever  to  see  difficulty  succeeded  by  difficulty,  and  hope  by  dis- 
appointment ? 

You  must  be  sensible  of  the  anxiety  I shall  feel  until  your  ambiguous  expressions 
are  fully  explained,  and  yet  you  refuse  this  explanation  ! But  you  have  no  pity  for  my 
feelings.  Would  it  not  be  more  generous  in  you  to  permit  an  interview  than  to  keep 
me  in  suspense  ? To  know  the  worst  is  some  degree  of  ease  ; besides,  I should  then 
have  an  opportunity  of  perhaps  convincing  you  that  virtue,  unlike  vice,  has  its  bounds, 
and  that  we  may  sometimes  carry  our  notions  of  honor  and  generosity  too  far,  and  sacri- 
fice our  real  happiness  to  chimerical  ideas  of  them.  Surely  I shall  not  be  too  presumptu- 
ous in  saying  that,  if  the  regard  Amanda  once  flattered  me  with  is  undiminished,  she 
will,  by  rejecting  a union  with  me,  leave  me  not  the  only  sufferer. 

Oh  ! do  not,  my  dear  and  too  scrupulous  girl,  think  a moment  longer  of  persevering 
in  a resolution  so  prejudicial  to  your  welfare.  Your  situation  requires  particular  pro- 
tection; young,  innocent,  and  beautiful ; already  the  object  of  licentious  pursuits;  your 
nearest  relations  your  greatest  enemies  ; your  brother,  from  his  unsettled  line  of  life,  un- 
able to  be  near  you.  Oh  I my  Amanda,  from  such  a situation  what  evils  may  accrue  f 
Avoid  them,  by  taking  refuge  in  his  arms  who  will  be  to  you  a tender  friend  and 
faithful  guardian.  Before  such  evils,  the  obligation  for  keeping  a promise  to  reject 
me  fades  away,  particularly  when  the  motives  which  led  to  such  a promise  are  con- 
sidered. Captain  Fitzalan,  hurt  by  the  unfortunate  letter  he  received  from  my  father, 
extended  his  resentment  to  his  son,  and  called  upon  you,  without  reflecting  on  the  con- 
sequences of  such  a measure,  to  give  me  up.  This  is  the  only  reason  I can  conceive  for 
his  desiring  such  a promise,  and  had  I but  arrived  while  he  could  have  listened  to  my 
arguments,  I am  firmly  convinced,  instead  of  opposing,  he  would  have  sanctioned  our 
union,  and  given  his  beloved  girl  to  a man  who,  in  every  instance,  would  study  to 
evince  his  gratitude  for  such  a gift  and  to  supply  his  loss. 

Happiness,  my  dear  Amanda,  is  in  long  arrears  with  us.  She  is  now  ready  to  make 
up  for  past  deficiencies,  if  it  is  not  our  own  fault  ; let  us  not  frighten  her  from  per- 
forming her  good  intentions, but  hand  in  hand  receive  the  lovely  and  long  absent  guest 
to  our  bosoms. 

You  will  not,  cannot,  must  not  be  inflexible;  I shall  expect,  as  soon  as  you  read 
this,  a summons  to  St.  Catherine’s  to  receive  the  ratification  of  my  hopes.  In  every- 
thing respecting  our  union  I will  be  guided  by  you,  except  delaying  it;  what  we  have 
both  suffered  already  from  deceit  makes  me  doubly  anxious  to  secure  you  mine,  lest 
another  vile  scheme  should  be  formed  to  effect  our  separation. 

O Amanda,  the  faintest  prospect  of  calling  you  mine  gives  to  my  heart  a felicity  no 
language  can  express.  Refuse  not  being  mine  except  you  bring  me  an  addition  of  for- 
tune • already  rich  in  every  virtue,  I shalb  in  obtaining  you,  obtain  a treasure  which  the 


302 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


wealthiest,  the  proudest,  and  the  vainest  of  the  sons  of  men  ma / envy  me  the  posee» 
Sion  of,  and  which  the  good,  the  sensible,  and  elegant  must  esteem  the  kindest  gift  iu” 
diligent  heaven  couid  bestow  on  me.  Banish  all  uneasy  doubts  and  scrupi  s,  my 
Amanda,  from  your  mind,  nor  think  a promise,  which  was  demanded  without  reflect- 
ing on  the  consequences  that  must  attend  it,  can  be  binding.  The  ingenuous  soul  of 
your  father  would  have  canceled  it  in  a moment,  had  those  consequences  been  repre- 
sented to  him  ; and  now,  when  our  own  reason  convinces  us  of  them,  I make  no  doubt  if 
departed  souls  are  permitted  to  view  the  transactions  of  this  world,  his  spirit  would  be- 
hold our  union  with  approbation.  Yes,  my  Amanda,  I repeat  your  father’s  api)roving 
spirit  will  smile  upon  an  act  which  gives  to  his  lovely  and  beloved  orphan  a faithful 
friend  and  steady  protector,  in  her  adoring 

Mortimer. 

Castle  Carberry,  llth  May. 

This  letter  deeply  affected  the  sensibility,  but  could  not  shake 
the  resolution  of  Amanda.  She  would  not  have  answered  it,  as 
she  considered  any  correspondence  an  infringement  on  the 
promise  she  had  given  her  father  to  decline  any  further  intimacy 
with  him  ; but  from  the  warmth  and  agitation  displayed  in  his 
letter,  it  was  evident  to  her  that,  if  he  did  not  receive  an  immedi- 
ate  answer  to  it,  he  would  come  to  St.  Catherine’s  and  insist  on 
seeing  her  ; and  she  felt  assured  that  she  could  much  better  de- 
liver her  sentiments  upon  paper  than  to  him  ; she  accordingly 
wrote  as  follows  : 

TO  LORD  MORTIMER. 

Mt  Lord  : You  cannot  change  my  resolution  ; surely,  when  I solemnly  declare  to 
you  it  is  unalterable,  you  will  spare  me  any  f iirth'  r importunity  on  so  painful  a subject. 
In  vain,  my  lord,  would  you,  by  sophistry,  cloaked  with  tenderness  for  that  purpose, 
try  to  influence  me.  The  arguments  you  have  made  use  of,  I am  convinced,  you  never 
would  have  adopted,  had  you  not  been  mistaken  in  regard  to  those  motives  which, 
prompted  my  father  to  ask  a promise  from  me  of  declining  any  farther  connection  with 
you.  It  was  not  from  resentment,  my  lord  ; no,  his  death  was  then  fast  approacliing, 
and  he,  in  charity  for  all  mankind,  forgave  those  who  had  wounded  him  by  unjust  re- 
proach and  accusation  ; it  was  a proper  respect  for  his  own  character,  and  not  resent- 
ment, which  influenced  his  conduct,  as  he  was  convinced  if  I consented  to  an  alliance 
with  you.  Lord  Cherbury  would  be  confirmed  in  all  the  suspicions  he  entertained  of  bis 
having  entangled  you  with  me,  and  consequently  load  his  memory  with  contempt. 
Tenderness,  also,  for  me  actuated  him  ; he  was  acquainted  with  the  proud  heart  of 
Lord  Cherbury,  and  knew  that  if,  poor  and  reduced  as  I was,  I entered  his  family 
I should  be  considered  and  treated  as  a mean  intruder.  So  thoroughly  am  I convinced 
that  he  did  not  err  in  this  idea,  that,  whenever  reason  is  predominant  in  my  mind,  I 
think,  even  if  a promise  did  not  exist  for  such  a purpose,  I should  decline  your  ad- 
dresses ; for,  though  I could  submit  with  cheerfulness  to  many  inconveniences  for 
your  sake,  I never  could  support  indignities.  We  must  part,  my  lord.  Providence 
has  appointed  different  paths  for  us  to  pursue  in  life;  yours  smooth  and  flowery,  if  by 
useless  regrets  you  do  not  frustrate  the  intentions  of  the  benevolent  Donor  ; mine 
rough  and  thorny  ; but  both,  though  so  different,  will  lead  to  the  same  goal,  where  we 
shall  again  meet  to  be  no  more  separated. 

Let  not  your  lordship  deem  me  either  unkind  or  ungrateful ; my  heart  disavows  the  jus-  * 
tice  of  such  accusations,  and  is  but  too  sensible  of  your  tenderness  and  generosity.  Yes, 
my  lord,  I will  confess  that  no  pangs  can  be  more  pungent  than  those  which  now  rend 
it,  at  being  obliged  to  act  against  its  feelings  ; but  the  greater  the  sacrifice  the  greater 
the  merit  of  submitting  to  it,  and  a ray  of  self-ap probation  is  perhaps  the  only  sunshine 
of  the  soul  which  will  brighten  my  future  dsys. 

Never,  my  lord,  should  I enjoy  this,  if  my  promise  to  my  father  was  violated.  Thei-e 
is  but  one  circumstance  which  could  set  it  aside,  that  is,  having  a fortune  that  even 
liOrd  Cherbury  might  deem  equivalent  to  your  own  to  bring  you  ; for  then  n.y  father 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


303 


has  often  said  he  would  approve  our  union  ; but  this  is  among  the  improbabilities 
of  this  life,  and  we  must  endeavor  to  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  destiny  which  separates 
us. 

I hope  your  lordship  will  not  attempt  to  see  me  again  ; you  must  be  sensible  that 
your  visits  would  be  highly  injurious  to  me.  Even  the  holy  and  solitary  asylum  which 
I have  found  would  not  protect  me  from  the  malice  which  has  already  been  so  busy 
with  my  peace  and  fame.  Alas!  I now  need  the  utmost  vigilance — deprived  as  I am 
of  those  on  whom  I had  claim  of  protection,  it  behooves  me  to  exert  the  utmost  circum- 
spection in  my  conduct  ; he  in  whom  I expected  to  have  found  a guardian,  Oscar,  my 
dear,  unfortunate  brother,  is  gone,  I know  not  whither,  persecuted  and  afflicted  by  the 
perfidious  monster  who  has  been  such  a source  of  misery  to  me  I Oh,  my  lord,  when 
I think  what  his  sufferings  may  now  be,  my  heart  sinks  within  me.  Oh  I had  I been 
the  only  sufferer  I should  not  have  felt  so  great  a degree  of  agony  as  I now  endure  ; 
but  I will  not  despair  about  my  dear  Oscar.  The  Providence  which  has  been  so  kind 
to  his  sister,  which  so  unexpectedly  raised  her  friends  at  the  moment  she  deemed  her- 
self deprived  of  all  earthly  comfort,  may  to  him  have  been  equally  merciful.  1 have 
trespassed  a long  time  upon  your  lordship’s  attention,  but  I wished  to  be  explicit,  to 
avoid  the  necessity  of  any  further  correspondence  between  us.  You  now  know’  my  re- 
solves ; you  also  know  my  feelings;  in  pity  to  them  spare  me  any  further  confiicts. 
May  the  tranquil  happiness  you  so  truly  deserve  soon  be  yours ! Do  not,  my  lord,  be- 
cause disappointed  in  one  wish,  lose  your  sense  of  the  many  valuable  blessings  witk 
which  you  are  surrounded,  in  fulfilling  the  claims  which  your  friends,  your  country^ 
have  upon  you  ; show  how  truly  you  merit  those  blessings,  and  banish  all  useless  re- 
grets from  your  heart.  Adieu, my  lord!  suffer  no  uneasiness  on  my  account.  If 
Heaven  prolongs  my  life,  I have  no  doubt  but  I shall  find  a little  comfortable  shelter 
from  the  world,  w'here,  conscious  I have  acted  according  to  my  principles  of  right, 
I shall  enjoy  the  serenity  which  ever  atterfds  self-approbation— a serenity  which  no 
changes  or  chances  in  this  life  will,  I trust,  ever  wrest  from 

Amanda  Fitzalan. 

St.  Catherine’s,  May  V^th, 

She  dispatched  this  by  an  old  man  who  was  employed  in  the 
garden  at  St.  Catherine’s  ; but  her  spirits  were  so  much  affected 
by  writing  it  she  was  obliged  to  go  up  and  lie  on  the  bed.  She 
considered  herself  as  having  taken  a final  adieu  of  Lord  Mortimer, 
and  the  idea  was  too  painful  to  be  supported  with  fortitude* 
Tender  and  fervent  as  his  attachment  was  now  to  her,  she  be- 
lieved the  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  world,  in  which  he  must  be  en- 
gaged, would  soon  eradicate  it.  A transfer  of  his  affections,  to 
one  equal  to  himself  in  rank  and  fortune,  was  a probable  events 
and  of  course  a total  expulsion  of  her  from  his  memory  would 
follow.  A deadly  coldness  stole  upon  her  heart  at  the  idea  of 
being  forgotten  by  him,  and  produced  a flood  of  tears.  She  thert 
began  to  accuse  herself  of  inconsistency.  She  had  often  thought, 
if  Lord  Mortimer  was  restored  to  happiness,  she  should  feel  more 
tranquil.  And  now,  when  the  means  of  affecting  this  restoration 
occurred,  she  trembled  and  lamented  as  if  it  would  increase  her 
misery.  ‘ I am  selfish,’  said  she  to  herself,  ‘ in  desiring  the 
prolongation  of  an  affection  which  must  ever  be  hopeless.  I am 
weak  in  regretting  the  probability  of  its  transfer,  as  I can  never 
return  it.’ 

To  conquer  those  feelings,  she  found  she  must  banish  Lord 
Mortimer  from  her  thoughts.  Except  she  succeeded  in  some  de- 
gree in  this,  she  felt  she  never  should  be  able  to  exert  the  forth 


304 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


tude  her  present  situation  demanded.  She  now  saw  a probability 
of  her  existence  being  prolonged,  and  the  bread  of  idleness  or 
dependence  could  never  be  sweet  to  Amanda  Fitzalan. 

She  had  lain  about  an  hour  on  the  bed,  and  was  about  rising 
and  returning  to  the  parlor,  when  Sister  Mary  entered  the 
chamber,  and  delivered  her  a letter.  Ere  Amanda  looked  at  the 
superscription,  her  agitated  heart  foretold  her  whom  it  came 
from.  She  was  not  mistaken  in  her  conjecture  ; but  as  she  held 
it  in  her  hand,  she  hesitated  whether  she  should  open  it  or  not. 
^ Yet,’  said  she  to  herself,  ‘it  can  be  no  great  harm.  He  cannot, 
after  what  I have  declared,  suppose  my  resolution  to  be  shaken. 
He  writes  to  assure  me  of  his  perfect  acquiescence  in  it.’  Sister 
Mary  left  her  at  the  instant  her  deliberations  ended  by  opening 
the  letter. 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

Inexorable  Amanda  I but  J will  spare  both  you  and  myself  the  pain  of  farther  im- 
portunity. All  I now  request  is  that,  for  three  months  longer  at  least,  you  will  con» 
tinue  at  St.  Catherine’s  ; or  that,  if  you  find  a much  longer  residence  there  unpleasant, 
you  will,  on  quitting  it,  leave  directions  where  to  be  found.  Ere  half  the  above-men- 
tioned period  be  elapsed,  I trust  I shall  be  able  satisfactorily  to  account  for  such  a 
request.  I am  quitting  Oastle  Carberry  immediately.  I shall  lea^re  it  with  a degree  of 
tranquillity  that  would  perhaps  surprise  you,  after  what  has  so  lately  passed,  if  in  this 
one  instance  you  will  oblige  your  ever  faithful  Mortimer. 

This  laconic  letter  astonished  Amanda.  By  its  style  it  was  evi- 
dent Lord  Mortimer  had  recovered  his  cheerfulness — recovered  it 
not  from  a determination  of  giving  her  up,  but  from  a hope  of 
their  again  meeting,  as  they  could  both  wish.  A sudden  transport 
rushed  upon  her  heart  at  such  an  idea,  but  quickly  died  away 
when  she  reflected  it  was  almost  beyond  the  possibility  of  things 
to  bring  about  a pleasing  interview  between  them.  She  knew 
Lord  Mortimer  had  a sanguine  temper,  and  though  it  might  mis- 
lead him,  she  resolved  it  should  not  mislead  her.  She  could  not 
form  the  most  distant  surmise  of  what  he  had  now  in  agitation  ; 
but  whatever  it  was,  she  firmly  believed  it  would  end  in  disap- 
pointment. To  refuse  every  request  of  his  was  painful;  but 
propriety  demanded  she  should  not  accede  to  the  last ; for  one 
step,  she  wisely  considered,  from  the  line  of  prudence  she  had 
^ marked  out  for  herself  to  take,  might  plunge  her  into  difiiculties 
" from  which  she  would  find  it  impossible  to  extricate  herself. 
With  an  unsteady  hand  she  returned  the  following  answer  : 

TO  LORD  MORTIMER. 

Mt  Lord  ; I cannot  comply  with  your  request.  You  may,  if  you  please,  repeat  in- 
exorable Amanda.  I had  rather  incur  the  imputation  of  obstinacy  than  imprudence, 
and  think  it  much  better  to  meet  your  accusation  than  deserve  my  own.  How  long  I 
may  reside  at  St.  Catherine’s  is  to  myself  unknown.  When  I quit  it,  I certainly  will 
not  promise  to  leave  any  irections  where  you  may  find  me. 

The  obstacles  which  1.  ve  rendered  our  separation  necessary  are,  I am  convinced, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


305 


beyond  yonr  lordship’s  power  to  conquer.  Except  they  were  removed,  any  farther 
interviews  between  ns  would  bo  foolish  and  imprudent  in  the  extreme.  I rejoice  to 
hear  you  are  leaving  the  castle.  I also  rejoice,  but  am  not  surprised,  to  hear,  of  your 
tranquillity.  From  your  good  sense  I expected  you  would  make  exertions  against  use- 
less regrets,  and  those  exertions  I knew  would  be  attended  with  success  ; but,  as  some 
return  for  the  sincere  pleasure  I feel  for  your  restoration  to  tranquillity,  seek  not  to 
disturb  again  that  of  Amanda  Fitzalan. 

St.  Catherine’s,  May  VHth. 

Scarcely  had  she  sealed  this  letter  when  she  was  called  to  din- 
ner ; but  though  she  obeyed  the  summons  she  could  not  eat. 
The  exertions  her  writing  to  Lord  Mortimer  required,  and  the 
agitation  his  letter  had  thrown  her  into,  quite  exhausted  her 
strength  and  spirits.  The  nuns  withdrew  soon  after  dinner,  and 
left  her  alone  with  the  prioress.  In  a few  minutes  after  their  de- 
parture, the  old  gardener  returned  from  Castle  Carberry,  where 
he  had  been  delivering  her  letter.  After  informing  her  he  had 
put  it  safely  into  his  lordship’s  hands,  he  added,  with  a look 
which  seemed  to  indicate  a fear  lest  she  should  be  distressed, 'that 
he  had  received  neither  letter  nor  message  from  him,  though  ho 
waited  a long  time  in  expectation  of  receiving  either  one  or  the 
other  ; but  he  supposed,  he  said,  his  lordship  was  in  too  great  a 
hurry  just  then  to  give  any  answer,  as  a chaise  and  four  was 
waiting  to  carry  him  to  Dublin. 

Amanda  burst  into  tears  as  the  man  retired  from  the  room. 
She  saw  she  had  written  to  Lord  Mortimer  for  the  last  time,  and 
she  could  not  suppress  this  tribute  of  regret.  She  was  .firmly 
convinced,  indeed,  she  should  behold  him  no  more.  The  idea  of 
visiting  her,  she  was  sure,  nay,  she  hoped,  he  would  relinquish,, 
when  he  found,  which  she  supposed  would  soon  be  the  case,  the 
schemes  or  hopes  which  now  buoyed  up  his  spirits  impossible  to 
be  realized. 

The  prioress  sympathized  in  her  sorrow  ; though  not  from  her 
own  experience,  yet  from  the  experience  of  others,  she  knew 
how  dangerous  and  bewitching  a creature  man  is,  and  how  difli- 
cult  it  is  to  remove  the  chains  which  he  twines  around  the  female 
heart.  To  remove  those  which  lay  so  heavy  upon  the  delicate 
and  susceptible  heart  of  her  young  friend,  without  leaving  a 
corrosive  wound,  was  her  sincere  wish,  and  by  strengthening  her 
resolution,  she  hoped  success  would  crown  their  endeavors. 

Two  hours  were  elapsed  since  her  messenger’s  return  from  the 
castle,  when  Sister  Mary  entered  the  room  with  a large  packet, 
which  she  put  into  Amanda’s  hands,  saying  it  was  given  her  by 
Lord  Mortimers  servant,  who  rode  off  the  moment  he  delivered 
it. 

Sister  Mary  made  no  scruple  of  saying  she  should  like  to  know 
what  such  a weighty  packet  contained.  The  prioress  chid  her  in 
A laughing  manner  for  her  curiosity,  and  drew  her  into  the  erar 


S06 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


den,  to  give  Amanda  an  opportunity  of  examining  the  contents. 

She  was  surprised,  on  breaking  the  seal,  to  perceive  a very  hand- 
some pocketbook  in  a blank  cover,  and  found  unsealed,  a letter 
to  this  effect  : 


TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

I have  put  it  out  of  your  power  to  return  this,  by  departing  long  ere  you  receive  it. 
Surely,  if  you  have  the  laudable  pride  you  profess,  you  will  not  hesitate  to  use  the  con- 
tents of  the  pocketbook,  as  the  only  meins  of  avoiding  a weight  of  obligations  from 
strangers.  Though  discarded  as  a lover,  surely  I may  be  esteemed  as  a friend,  and  with 
such  a title  I will  be  contented  all  I can  lay  claim  to  a tenderer  one.  You  start  at  this 
last  expression,  and  I have  no  doubt  you  will  call  me  a romantic  visionary  for  enter- 
taining hopts  which  you  have  so  positively  assured  me  can  never  be  realized  ; but  ere 
I resign  them,  I must  have  something  more  powerful  than  this  assurance,  my  sweet 
Amanda,  to  convince  me  of  their  fallacy.  I was  inexpressibly  shocked  this  morning  to 
learn,  by  your  letter,  that  your  brother  had  met  with  misfortune.  My  blood  boils  with 
indignation  against  the  monster  who  has,  to  use  your  emphatical  expression,  been  such 
sa  source  of  misery  to  you  both.  I shall  make  it  my  particular  care  to  try  and  discover 
the  place  to  which  Mr.  Fitzalan  is  gone,  and  in  what  situation.  By  means  of  the  agents 
or  some  of  the  officers  belonging  to  the  regiment,  I flatter  myself  with  being  able  to 
gain  some  intelligence  of  him.  I need  not  add  that,  to  the  utmost  extent  of  my  power, 
I will  serve  him.  My  success  in  this  affair,  as  well  as  in  that  which  concerns  a much 
Nearer  being,  you  may  be  convinced  you  shall  soon  hear  of.  Adieu,  my  Amanda;  I can- 
not say,  like  Hamlet,  ‘ Go,  get  you  to  a nunnery  but  I can  say,  ‘ Stay  there,  I charge 
you.’  Seriously,  I could  wash,  except  you  find  your  present  situation  very  unpleasant 
and  inconvenient,  not  to  change  it  for  a short  time.  I think,  for  a temporary  abode, 
you  could  not  find  a more  eligible  one ; and,  as  I shall  be  all  impatience  when  I return 
to  Ireland,  to  see  you,  a s arch  after  you  would  be  truly  insupportable.  You  have  al- 
Teady  refused  to  inform  me  of  your  determination  relative  to  this  matter;  surely,  I may 
venture  to  request  it  may  be  as  I wish,  when  I assure  you  that,  except  I can  see  you 
in  a manner  pleasing  to  both,  I never  will  force  into  your  presence  him,  who,  let  things 
turn  out  as  they  may,  must  ever  continue  Your  faithful 

Mortimer. 

‘ Gracious  Heaven  ! ’ said  Amanda  to  herself,  ‘ what  can  he 
mean  ? What  scheme  can  he  have  in  agitation  which  will  re- 
move the  obstacles  to  our  union  ? He  here  seems  to  speak  of  a 
certainty  of  success.  Oh,  grant,  merciful  Power  ! ’ she  con- 
tinued, raising  her  meek  eyes  to  heaven,  while  a rosy  blush  stole 
upon  her  cheeks,  ‘ grant  that  indeed  he  may  be  successful.  He 
talks  of  returning  to  Ireland  ; still,’  proceeded  she,  reading  over 
the  letter,  ‘ of  requiring  something  more  powerful  than  my  as- 
surance to  convince  him  of  tlie  fallacy  of  his  hopes.  Surely, 
Lord  Mortimer  would  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  raise  expectations  in 
my  bosom  without  those  in  his  own  were  well  founded.  No,  dear 
Mortimer,  I will  not  call  you  a romantic  visionary,  but  the  most 
amiable  and  most  generous  of  men,  who  for  poor  Amanda  en- 
counters difficulties  and  sacrifices  every  splendid  expectation.’ 
She  rejoiced  at  the  intention  he  had  declared  of  seeking  out  Oscar. 
She  looked  forward  either  to  a speedy  interview,  or  speedy  intelli- 
gence of  this  beloved  brother,  as  she  knew  Lord  Mortimer  would 
seek  him  with  the  persevering  spirit  of  benevolence,  and  leave 
no  means  untried  to  restore  him  to  her. 

She  now  examined  the  contents  of  the  pocketbook.  It  con 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


307 


tained  a number  of  small  bills,  to  the  amount  of  two  hundred 
pounds — a large  present,  but  one  so  delicately  presented  that 
even  her  ideas  of  propriety  could  scarcely  raise  a scruple  against 
her  accepting  it.  They  did,  however,  suggest  one.  Uncertain, 
how  matters  would  yet  terminate  between  her  and  Lord  Morti- 
mer, she  was  unwilling  to  receive  pecuniary  obligations  from  him. 
But  when  she  reflected  on  his  noble  and  feeling  heart,  she  knew 
she  should  severely  wound  it  by  returning  his  present  ; she 
therefore  resolved  on  keeping  it,  making  a kind  of  compromise 
with  her  feelings  about  the  matter,  by  determining  that,  ex- 
cept entitled  to  receive  them,  she  would  never  more  accept 
favors  of  this  nature  from  his  lordship.  The  present  one,  indeed,, 
was  a most  seasonable  relief,  and  removed  from  her  heart  a load 
of  anxiety  which  had  weighed  on  it.  After  paying  her  father’s 
funeral  expenses,  the  people  with  whom  he  lodged,  and  the 
apothecary  who  had  attended  him,  she  found  herself  mistress  of 
but  twenty  guineas  in  the  whole  world,  and  more  than  half  of 
this  she  considered  as  already  due  to  the  benevolent  Sisters  of 
St.  Catherine  s,  who  were  ill  able  to  afford  any  additional 
expense. 

She  had  resolved  to  force  them  to  accept,  what  indeed  she 
deemed  a poor  return  for  their  kindness  to  her,  and  she  then  in- 
tended to  retire  to  some  obscure  hovel  in  the  neighborhood,  as 
better  suited  to  the  state  of  her  finances,  and  continue  there  till 
her  health  was  sufficiently  restored  to  enable  her  to  make  exer- 
tions for  her  livelihood.  But  she  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  leaving 
St.  Catherine’s  and  residing  among  a set  of  boors.  She  felt  sen- 
sations something  similar  to  those  we  may  suppose  a person  would 
feel  who  was  about  being  committed  to  a tempestuous  ocean  with- 
out any  means  of  security. 

Lord  Mortimer  had  now  prevented  the  necessity  which  had 
prompted  her  to  think  of  a removal,  and  she  now  resolved  to  re- 
side, at  least  for  the  time  he  had  mentioned,  in  the  convent,  dur- 
ing which  she  supposed  her  uncertainties  relative  to  him  would 
be  over,  and  that  if  it  was  not  her  fate  to  be  his,  she  should, 
by  the  perfect  re-establishment  of  her  health,  be  enabled  to  use 
her  abilities  in  the  manner  her  situation  required.  Tears  of 
heartfelt  gratitude  and  sensibility  flowed  down  her  cheeks  for 
him  who  had  lightened  her  mind  of  the  care  which  had  so  op- 
pressed it. 

She  at  length  recollected  the  prioress  had  retired  into  the  gar- 
den from  complaisance  to  her,  and  yet  continued  in  it,  waiting, 
no  doubt,  to  be  summoned  back  to  her.  She  hastily  wiped  away 
her  tears,  and  folding  up  the  precious  letter  which  was  bedewed 
with  them,  repaired  to  the  garden,  resolving  not  to  communicate 
its  contents,  as  the  divulgement  of  expectations  (considering  hoW 


SOS 


TH^  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


liable  all  human  ones  are  to  be  disappointed)  she  ever  considered 
a piece  of  folly. 

She  found  the  prioress  and  Sister  Mary  seated  under  a broken 
and  ivy -covered  arch.  ‘Jesu  ! my  dear,’  said  the  latter,  ‘I 
thought  you  would  never  come  to  us.  Our  good  Mother  has 
been  keeping  me  here  in  spite  of  my  teeth,  though  I told  her  the 
sweet  cakes  I made  for  tea  would  be  burned  by  this  time,  and 
that,  supposing  you  were  reading  a letter  from  Lord  Mortimer, 
there  could  be  no  harm  in  my  seeing  you.  ’ Amanda  relieved  the 
impatient  Mary,  and  she  took  her  seat.  The  prioress  cast  her 
piercing  eyes  upon  her.  She  perceived  she  had  been  weeping, 
and  that  joy  rather  than  sorrow  caused  her  tears.  She  was  too 
d.elicate  to  inquire  into  its  source ; but  she  took  Amanda’s  hand, 
and  gave  it  a pressure,  which  seemed  to  say,  ‘I  see,  my  dear 
child,  you  have  met  with  something  which  pleases  you,  and  my 
heart  sympathizes  as  much  in  your  h^piness  as  in  your  grief.’ 

Amanda  returned  the  affectionate  pressure  with  one  equally 
tender  and  a starting  tear.  They  were  soon  called  by  Sister  Mary 
to  partake  of  her  hot  cakes,  which  she  had  made,  indeed,  in  hopes 
of  tempting  Amanda  to  eat  after  her  bad  dinner.  The  whole 
community  were  assembled  at  tea  when  the  doctor  entered  the 
parlor.  Amanda  blushed  and  looked  grave  at  his  first  entrance ; 
but  he  soon  rallied  her  out  of  her  gravity.  And  when  the 
prioress  and  the  nuns,  according  to  custom,  had  withdrawn  to 
evening  vespers,  he  said,  with  a significant  smile,  ‘ he  feared  she 
had  not  attended  as  much  as  he  wished  she  should  to  the  contents 
of  the  book  he  had  last  brought  her.’  She  saw  by  his  manner  he 
was  acquainted  with  her  situation  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer,  and 
therefore  replied  by  saying,  ‘ that  perhaps  if  he  knew  the  motives 
which  influenced  her  conduct,  he  would  not  think  her  wrong  in 
disregarding  what  he  had  just  mentioned.’  She  also  said,  ‘she 
detested  all  kinds  of  stratagem,  and  was  really  displeased  with  him 
for  practicing  one  upon  her.  ’ ‘ In  a good  cause,  ’ he  said,  ‘ he  should 

never  hesitate  in  using  one.  Lord  Mortimer  was  the  finest  young 
fellow  he  had  ever  seen,  and  had  wen  his  favor,  and  the  best 
wishes  of  his  heart,  from  the  first  moment  that  he  beheld  him. 
He  made  me  contrive,  ’ continued  the  doctor,  ‘ a story  to  gain  ad- 
mission to  your  ladyship,  and  when  I found  him  so  dreadfully 
anxious  about  you,  I gave  you  credit  (as  I had  then  no  opportunity 
of  judging  for  myself)  for  all  the  virtues  and  graces  he  ascribed  to 
you,  and  which  I have  since  perceived  you  to  possess.  You  smile, 
and  look  as  if  you  would  call  me  a flatterer ; seriously,  I assure 
you  I am  not  one.  I really  think  you  worthy  of  Lord  Mortimer, 
and  I assure  you  that  is  as  great  a compliment  as  could  be  paid 
any  woman.  His  mind  was  troubled  with  grief ; he  revealed  his 
troubles  and  perplexities  to  me,  and,  after  hearing  them,  no  good 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


309 


Christian  ever  prayed  more  devoutly  for  another  than  I prayed 
for  your  recovery,  that  all  your  sorrows,  like  a novel,  might  ter- 
minate in  marriage.’  ‘You  are  obliging  in  your  wishes,’  said 
Amanda,  smiling.  ‘Faith,  I am  sincere  in  them,’  exclaimed  he, 
‘ and  do  not  know  when  I have  been  so  disconcerted  as  at  things 
not  turning  out  smoothly  between  you  and  his  lordship ; but  I 
will  not  despair.  In  all  my  troubles — and  Heaven  has  given  me 
my  share— I ever  looked  to  the  bright  side  of  things,  and  shall  al- 
ways do  so  for  my  friends.  I yet  expect  to  see  you  settle  at  Castle 
Carberry,  and  to  be  appointed  myself  physician  general  to  your 
ladyship’s  household.’  The  mention  of  an  event  yet  so  uncertain 
greatly  agitated  Amanda ; she  blushed  and  turned  pale  alternately, 
and  convinced  her  good-natured  but  loquacious  friend,  he  had 
touched  a chord  which  could  not  bear  vibration.  He  hastily 
changed  the  discourse,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  her  composed,  rose 
to  take  his  leave.  Amanda  detained  him  for  a minute,  to  try  and 
prevail  on  him  to  take  a ten-guinea  note ; but  he  was  inflexible, 
and  said  with  some  archness,  ‘ till  the  disorder  which  preyed  up- 
on Lord  Mortimer’s  heart  was  in  some  degree  alleviated,  he  would 
receive  no  recompense  for  his  visits,  which,  he  assured  Amanda, 
from  time  to  time  he  would  continue  to  pay  her,  adding,  a certain 
person  had  enjoined  him  now  and  then  to  take  a peep  within  the 
holy  walls  of  St.  Catherine’s.’ 

The  next  morning  Amanda  set  about  a temporary  arrangement 
of  her  affairs.  She  presented  thirty  guineas  to  the  sisterhood, 
which,  with  much  difficulty,  she  forced  them  to  accept,  though,  in 
reality,  it  was  much  required  by  them.  But  when  she  came  to 
speak  of  paying  for  a continuance,  they  positively  declared  they 
would  agree  to  no  such  thing,  as  she  had  already  so  liberally  re- 
warded them  for  any  expense  they  had  incurred  on  her  account. 
She  told  them  that  if  they  would  not  agree  to  be  paid  for  lodging 
and  board,  she  would  certainly  leave  them,  though  such  a step 
was  contrary  to  her  inclinations ; she  assured  them,  also,  she  was 
at  present  well  able  to  pay. 

At  last  it  was  settled  she  should  give  them  at  the  rate  of  forty 
pounds  a year — a sum  they  thought  extremely  ample,  consider- 
ing the  plain  manner  in  which  they  lived.  She  then  had  all  the 
things  which  belonged  to  her  father  and  herself  brought  to  the 
convent,  and  had  the  former,  with  whatever  she  did  not  immedi- 
ately want,  nailed  up  in  a large  chest,  so  that,  on  a short  notice,  they 
might  be  removed.  Her  harp  and  guitar  she  had,  in  her  distress, 
proposed  sending  back  to  the  person  in  Dublin  from  whom  they 
were  purchased,  to  sell  for  her  ; but  she  now  determined  to  keep 
those  presents  of  her  beloved  father,  except  again  urged  by  neces- 
sity to  part  with  them.  She  had  a variety  of  materials  for  paint- 
ing and  working,  and  proposed  employing  herself  in  executing 


310 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


pieces  in  each  way,  not  only  as  a means  of  amusing  her  time,  but 
as  a resource  on  an  evil  day  ; thus  wisely  making  use  of  the  presnt 
sunshine,  lest  another  storm  should  arise  which  she  should  not  be 
so  well  able  to  struggle  against. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

In  struggling  with  misfortunes 
Lies  the  proof  of  virtue— Shakspbre. 

The  turbulence  of  grief,  and  the  agitation  of  suspense,  gradually 
lessened  in  the  mind  of  Amanda,  and  were  succeeded  by  a soft 
and  pleasing  melancholy,  which  sprang  from  the  consciousness 
of  having  always,  to  the  best  of  her  abilities,  performed  the  duties 
imposed  upon  her  and  supported  her  misfortunes  with  placid 
resignation.  She  loved  to  think  on  her  father ; for,  amid  her  sighs 
for  his  loss,  were  mingled  the  delightful  ideas  of  having  ever  been 
a source  of  comfort  to  him,  and  she  believed,  if  departed  spirits 
were  allowed  to  review  this  world,  his  would  look  down  upon  her 
with  delight  and  approbation  at  beholding  her  undeviating  in  the 
path  he  had  marked  out  for  her  to  take.  The  calm  derived  from 
such  meditations  she  considered  as  a recompense  for  many  sor- 
rows ; it  was  such,  indeed,  as  nothing  earthly  gives,  or  can  destroy, 
and  what  the  good  must  experience,  though  ‘ amid  the  wreck  of 
matter  and  the  crush  of  worlds.’ 

She  tried  to  prevent  her  thoughts  from  wandering  to  Lord  Morti- 
mer, as  the  surest  means  of  retaining  her  composure,  which  fled 
whenever  she  reflected  on  the  doubtful  balance  in  which  her  fate 
yet  hung  concerning  him. 

The  solitude  of  St.  Catherine’s  was  well  adapted  to  her  present 
situation  and  frame  of  mind.  She  was  not  teased  with  imperti- 
nent or  unmeaning  ceremony,  but,  perfect  mistress  of  her  own  time 
and  actions,  read,  worked,  and  walked,  as  most  agreeable  to  her- 
:^lf. 

Sbe  did  not  extend  her  walks  beyond  the  convent,  as  the  scenes 
around  it  would  awaken  remembrances  she  had  not  sufficient  for- 
titude to  bear ; but  the  space  it  covered  was  ample  enough  to  afford 
her  many  different  and  extensive  rambles.  And  of  a still  evening, 
when  nothing  but  the  lowing  of  the  cattle,  or  the  buzzing  of  the 
summer  flies,  was  to  be  heard,  she  loved  to  wander  through  the 
solemn  and  romantic  ruins,  sometimes  accompanedby  a nun,  but 
much  oftener  alone. 

A fortnight  had  elapsed  in  this  maimer  since  Lord  Mortimer’s 
departure,  when  one  morning,  a carriage  was  heard  driving  across 
the  common  and  stopping  at  the  outer  gate  of  St.  Catherine’s. 

Amanda,  who  was  sitting  at  work  in  the  parlor  with  the  prior- 
ess, started  in  a universal  trepidation  at  the  sound.  It  may  be 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABREY. 


3:1 

easily  imagined  the  idea  of  Lord  Mortimer  was  uppermost  in  he? 
thoughts.  Tlie  door  opened  in  a few  minutes,  and,  to  her  great 
astonishment,  Mrs.  Kilcorban  and  her  two  daughter’s  made  their 
appearance. 

Agitation  and  surprise  prevented  Amanda  from  speaking  ; she 
courtesied,  and  motioned  them  to  be  seated.  The  young  ladies 
saluted  her  with  an  icy  civility,  and  the  mother  ti’eated  her  with  a 
rude  familiarity,  which  she  thought  herself  authorized  in  using 
to  one  so  reduced  in  circumstances  as  Amanda.  ‘ Dear  me,’  cried 
she,  ‘ you  can’t  think,  child,  how  shocked  we  have  all  been  to  hear 
of  your  misfortunes.  We  only  returned  to  the  country  yesterday, 
for  we  have  been  in  town  the  whole  winter,  and  to  be  sure  a most 
delightful  winter  we  have  had  of  it — such  balls,  such  routs,  such 
racketings  ; but,  as  I was  going  to  say,  as  soon  as  we  came  home 
I began,  according  to  my  old  custom,  to  inquire  after  all  my 
neighbors  ; and  to  be  sure  the  very  first  thing  I heard  of  was  the 
poor  captain’s  death.  Don’t  cry,  my  dear,  we  must  all  go  one 
time  or  another  ; those  are  things  of  course,  as  the  doctor  says  in 
his  sermon  ; so,  when  I heard  of  your  father’s  death  and  your  dis- 
tress, I began  to  cast  about  in  my  brains  for  some  plan  for  helping 
you  ; and  at  last  I hit  upon  one  which,  says  I to  the  girls,  will 
delight  the  poor  soul,  as  it  will  give  her  an  opportunity  of  earning 
decent  bread  for  herself.  You  must  know,  my  dear,  the  tutoress 
we  brought  to  town  would  not  come  back  with  us — a dirty  trollop, 
by  the  bye — and  I think  her  place  would  be  quite  the  thing  for 
you.  You  will  have  the  four  young  girls  to  learn  French  and 
work  too,  and  I will  expect  you,  as  you  have  a good  taste,  to 
assist  the  eldest  Miss  Kilcorbans  in  making  up  their  things  and 
dressing.  I give  twenty  guineas  a year.  When  we  have  no  com- 
pany, the  tutoress  always  sits  at  the  table,  and  gets,  besides  this, 
Ihe  best  of  treatment  in  every  respect.’ 

A blush  of  indignation  had  gradually  conquered  Amanda’s  pale- 
ness during  Mrs.  Kilcorban’s  long  and  eloquent  speech.  ‘ Your 
intentions  may  be  friendly,  madam,’  cried  she,  ‘but  I must  de- 
cline your  proposal.’  ‘ Bless  me,  and  why  must  you  decline  it  ? 
perhaps  you  think  yourself  not  qualified  to  instruct  ; indeed,  this 
may  be  the  case,  for  people  often  get  credit  for  accomplishments 
they  do  not  possess.  Well,  if  this  is  so,  I am  still  content  to  take 
you,  as  you  were  always  a decent  behaved  young  body.  Indeed, 
you  cannot  expect  I should  give  you  twenty  guineas  a year.  No, 
no,  I must  make  some  abatement  in  the  salary,  if  I am  forced  to 
get  masters  to  help  you  in  learning  the  girls.’  ‘ Miss  Fitzalan, 
madam,’  exclaimed  the  prioress,  who  had  hitherto  continued  si- 
lent, ‘never  got  credit  for  accomplishments  which  she  did  not 
possess  ; her  modesty  has  rather  obscured  than  blazoned  forth 
her  perfections  ; she  does  not,  therefore,  madam,  decline  your 


312 


THE  OHILDEEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


offer  from  a consciousness  of  inability  to  undertake  the  office  ot 
an  instructor,  but  from  a conviction  she  never  could  support  im- 
pertinence and  folly;  should  her  situation  ever  require  her  to  ex- 
ert her  talents  for  subsistence,  I trust  she  will  never  experience 
the  mortification  of  associating  with  those  who  are  insensible 
of  her  worth,  or  unwilling  to  pay  her  the  respect  she  merits.^ 
‘ Hoity,  toity,’  cried  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  ‘ what  assurance  ! Why, 
madam,  many  a better  man’s  child  would  be  glad  to  jump  at  such 
an  offer,’  ‘Dear  madam,’  said  Miss  Kilcorban,  ‘ perhaps  the  young 
lady  has  a better  settlement  in  view.  We  forget  Lord  Mortimer 
has  been  lately  at  Castle  Carberry,  and  we  all  know  his  lordship  is 
a friend  to  Captain  Fitzalan’s  daughter.  ’ ‘ Or  perhaps,  ’ cried  Miss 

Alicia,  in  a giggling  tone,  ‘she  means  to  be  a nun.’  ‘Indeed,  I 
suppose  she  means  to  be  nothing  good,’  rejoined  Mrs  Kilcorban  ; 
‘ and  I suppose  it  was  by  some  impertinence  or  other  she  had  a 
tiff  with  Lady  Grey  stock.  Lord  ! [looking  round  the  room] 
only  see  her  music  books — her  harp — her  guitar — as  if  she  had 
nothing  to  do  but  sing  and  thrum  away  the  whole  day.  Well, 
miss  [rising  from  her  chair],  you  may  yet  be  sorry  your  friend 
said  so  much  about  you.  I did  not  come  merely  to  offer  to  take 
you  into  my  house,  but  to  offer  you  also  a good  sum  for  your  harp 
and  guitar,  supposing  you  had  no  business  with  such  things  now- 
adays ; but  I dare  say  you  would  have  refused  this  offer.’  ‘I 
certainly  should,  madam,’  said  Amanda  ; ‘it  must  be  strong  ne- 
cessity which  compels  me  to  part  with  my  beloved  father’s  presents.* 
‘ Well,  well,  child,  I wish  this  pride  of  thine  may  not  yet  be  hum- 
bled.’ So  saying,  she  flounced  out  of  the  room,  followed  by 
her  daughters,  who,  under  an  affectation  of  contejnpt,  evidently 
showed  they  were  chagrined  by  the  reception  they  had  met. 

The  prioress  indulged  herself  in  a long  fit  of  laughter  at  the 
passion  into  which  she  had  thrown  Mrs.  Kilcorban ; and  Amanda, 
who  considered  the  lady  and  her  daughters  as  the  most  insignifi- 
cant of  beings,  soon  recovered  from  the  discomposure  their  visit 
had  occasioned.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  a letter  was  de- 
livered her  by  the  servant,  who  said  the  messenger  who  brought 
it  waited  for  an  answer.  Amanda,  in  a universal  trepidation, 
broke  the  seal  ; but,  instead  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  as  she  expected, 
a hand,  to  her  entirely  new,  struck  her  view  : 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

Mt  Bear  Creature  : I think  I never  wrs  so  diverted  in  my  life  as  at  the  account 
my  mother  and  sisters  gave  of  the  reception  they  met  with  from  yen  to-day  at  St.  Cath- 
erine’s. I vow  to  God  it  was  excellent.  Nor  cam  I help  still  wondering  at  their  ab- 
surdity, in  thinking  such  a devilish  fine  girl  as  you  are  would  sacrifice  your  time  in 
instructing  a parcel  of  chits,  when  it  can  be  devoted  to  so  much  better  a purpose  ! To 
be  brief,  my  dear  girl,  I will  take  you  immediately  under  my  protection,  if  not  your 
own  fault,  bring  you  to  Dublin,  settle  you  in  elegant  lodgings  with  a handsome  allow* 
4Uice,  and  not  only  make  you,  but  declat  t you  to  be,  the  grand  Sultana  of  my  affec 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


313 


4iona;  a situation  which,  I can  assure  you,  you  will  not  be  a little  envied  enjoying.  In 
your  answer  to  this,  I shall  expect  to  hear  when  I [may  have  the  felicity  of  bringing 
you  fro^  obscurity,  to  the  brilliant  scene  you  were  formed  to  ornament.  Adieu,  my 
dear.  Believe  me,  your  devoted, 

B.  Kilcorban. 

The  indignation  which  filled  Amanda's  breast  at  reading  this 
scrawl  cannot  be  expressed.  Her  blood  seemed  to  ^boil  in  her 
veins.  It  was  some  time  ere  she  could  sufficiently  compose  her- 
self to  acquaint  the  prioress  with  the  cause  of  her  agitation.  It 
was  then  agreed  that  the  letter  should  be  returned  with  the  fol- 
lowing lines  written  on  it  : 

The  author  of  this  effusion  of  ignorance  and  impertinence  has  already  inspired  all 
the  contempt  he  merits.  Should  he  repeat  his  insolence,  something  even  more  morti- 
lying  than  contempt— chastisement — must  ensue. 

That  a repetition  of  this  insult  would  occur,  she  did  not  be- 
lieve. From  Kilcorban  she  had  no  reason  to  suspect  either  the 
perseverance  or  designs  of  Belgrave.  One  was  a libertine  from 
principle,  the  other  she  believed  to  pretend  to  be  so  from  fashion; 
and  that  to  pique  his  pride  would  be  a sure  method  of  getting  rid 
*of  him. 

But  the  calm  she  had  for  some  time  experienced  was  destined 
to  be  interrupted.  The  next  morning  brought  Father  O’Gallag- 
han,  the  little  fat  priest  (of  whom  we  have  made  mention  before 
in  our  pages),  to  the  convent.  He  was  not  the  officiating  priest  ; 
but  notwithstanding  this,  paid  many  visits  to  the  sisterhood, 
with  whom  he  was  a great  favorite  ; he  had  been  much  con- 
cerned about  Amanda’s  illness.  She  was  sitting  alone  in  the 
parlor,  drawing,  when  he  entered  it.  He  seated  himself  by  her, 
and  the  expression  of  his  countenance  seemed  to  declare  his  heart 
was  brimful  of  something  pleasant. 

‘ You  won’t  be  offended  now,  my  dear  sowl,’  said  he,  smirking 
up  in  her  face,  ‘ with  a body  for  asking  you  how  you  would  like 
to  leave  this  dismal  solitude  and  have  a comfortable  home  of 
your  own,  where  you  might  see  your  own  friends,  and  have 
everything  warm  and  cozy  about  you  ? ’ ‘ Why,’  said  Amanda, 

‘ though  I do  not  consider  this  a dismal  solitude,  yet,  to  be  sure, 
I should  have  no  objection  to  a pleasant  settled  habitation.’  ‘Ay, 
I always  thought  you  a sensible  young  body.  Well,  and  what 
would  you  say  to  the  person  then  who  could  point  out  such  a 
habitation  ? Ay,  you  little  rogue,  who  could  say  they  had  just 
such  a one  in  their  eye  for  you.’  Amanda  stared  at  him  with 
astonishment.  She  had  at  first  believed  him  jesting,  but  now 
found  him  serious. 

‘ Ah,  faith,  my  dear  creature,’  cried  he,  continuing  his  dis- 
course with  a look  of  the  most  perfect  satisfaction,  ‘ I have  an  of 
fer  to  make  you,  which,  I believe,  wou;^d  make  many  girls  jump 


314 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


ouh  of  their  skins  with  joy  to  hear.  You  remember  the  O’Flan* 
naghans,  I am  sure,  where  you  took  tea  last  summer.  Well,  the 
oldest  of  the  sons  (as  honest  a lad  as  ever  broke  bread j cast  a 
cheep’s  eye  upon  you  then.  But  what  with  your  going  from  the 
country,  and  some  other  matters,  he  thought  thei^e  was  no  use. 
then  in  revealing  his  flame  ; but  now,  when  you  are  come  plump 
m his  way  again,  faith,  he  plucked  up  his  courage,  and  told  his^ 
tather  all  about  it.  Old  Flannaghan  is  a good-natured  sowl,  and 
is  very  willing  the  match  should  take  place.  They  have  every- 
thing snug  about  them.  The  old  man  will  give  everything  into 
your  spouse’s  hands.  The  youngest  son  will  live  in  the  house 
till  he  gets  married  and  goes  off  to  a farm  of  his  own.  The 
eldest  daughter  is  married  ; the  second  will  live  with  her,  and  the 
youngest  will  be  a little  handy  assistant  to  you.  So  you  see,  you. 
will  not  be  tormented  with  a large  family.  There  is  one  little 
matter  which,  to  be  sure,  they  are  a little  uneasy  about,  and  that 
is  your  being  of  different  persuasions  ; but  says  I to  them,  whert 
this  was  started,  faith,  says  I,  you  need  not  give  yourself  any 
trouble  about  it,  for  I know  the  young  woman  to  be  a discreet 
sowl,  and  I am  sure  she  will  make  no  hesitation  about  going  to 
chapel  instead  of  church,  when  she  knows,  too,  it  is  for  her  own 
interest.  So,  my  dear  sowl,  I hope  soon  to  give  you  the  nuptial 
benediction,  and  to  be  also  your  spiritual  director.’ 

Amanda  had  listened  to  this  speech  in  silent  amazement.  She 
now  rose,  and  would  have  quitted  the  room  without  speaking,  ta 
evince  her  contempt,  had  not  an  idea  darted  into  her  mind  that 
such  conduct  perhaps  might  not  be  construed  by  the  ignorant 
priest  in  the  manner  she  wished.  She,  therefore,  stopped,  and 
turning  to  him  said  : ‘ He  could  not  wonder  at  her  being  of- 

fended at  his  pretending  to  answer  so  freely  for  her  in  matters  so 
important  as  religion  ; but  to  prove  how  presumptuous  he  was  in 
everything  he  said  about  her,  she  must  assure  him  his  embassy 
to  her  was  equally  fruitless  and  disagreeable  ; and  that  if  Mr. 
O’Flan naghan  consulted  his  own  happiness,  he  would  seek  to 
unite  himself  with  a woman  brought  up  in  his  own  sphere  of  life.’’ 
So  saying,  she  quitted  the  room  with  a look  of  dignity  which 
quite  confounded  the  poor  priest,  who  snatched  up  his  hat  in  a 
great  hurry,  and  waddled  away  to  the  farm,  to  communicate  the 
ill  success  of  his  visit,  which  had  quite  crushed  his  expectations 
of  wedding  presents  and  pudding  feasts,  which  he  had  contem- 
plated in  idea  with  delight. 

It  was  some  time  ere  Amanda  recovered  from  the  discomposure 
into  which  the  impertinence  of  the  Kilcorbans  and  the  priest  had 
thrown  her.  From  what  she  suffered  in  consequence  of  it,  she  was 
forcibly  convinced  how  ill  qualified  she  was  to  struggle  with  a 
world  where  she  would  be  continually  liable  to  such  shocks.  She 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


315 


iiad  yet  a hope  of  escaping  them  —a  liope  of  being  guarded  by  the 
tutelary  care  of  Lord  Mortimer,  and  of  being  one  of  the  happiest 
of  her  sex. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Lo!  I am  here  to  answer  to  your  vows, 

And  be  the  meeting  fortunate!  I come 

With  joyful  tidings;  we  shall  part  no  more.— Akensidb. 

But  a shock  more  severe  than  those  she  had  lately  experienced 
was  yet  in  store  for  our  hapless  heroine.  About  a fortnight  after 
the  visit  of  tlie  Kilcorbans  and  the  priest,  as  she  was  rambling 
one  evening,  according  to  custom,  among  the  solitary  ruins  of  St. 
Catherine’s,  indulging  the  pensive  meditations  of  her  soul,  the 
figure  of  a man  suddenly  darted  from  under  a broken  arch,  and 
discovered  to  her  view  the  features  of  the  hated  Belgrave.  Amanda 
^ave  a faint  cry,  and  in  unutterable  dismay  tottered  back  a few 
paces  against  a wall.  ‘ Cruel  Amanda  ! ’ exclaimed  Belgrave, 
while  his  look  seemed  to  imply  he  would  take  advantage  of  her 
situation.  His  look,  his  voice,  operated  like  a charm  to  rouse 
iier  from  the  kind  of  stupefaction  into  which  she  had  fallen  at 
first  sight  of  him,  and  as  he  attempted  to  lay  hold  of  her  she 
sprang  past  him  and,  with  a swiftness  which  mocked  his  speed, 
-flew  through  the  intricate  windings  of  the  place  till  she  reached 
the  convent.  Her  pale  and  distracted  look,  as  she  rushed  into  the 
prioress’s  apartment,  terrified  the  good  old  lady,  who  hastily 
interrogated  her  as  to  the  cause  of  her  disorder ; but  Amanda  was 
unable  to  speak.  The  appearance  of  Belgrave  she  thought 
an  omen  of  every  ill  to  her.  Her  blood  ran  cold  through  her 
veins  at  his  sight,  and  terror  totally  subdued  her  powers.  The 
prioress  summoned  Sister  Mary  to  her  relief;  drops  and  water  were 
administered,  and  the  overloaded  heart  of  the  trembling  Amanda 
was  relieved  by  tears.  The  prioress  again  asked  the  cause  of  her 
agitation,  but  perceiving  Amanda  did  not  like  to  speak  before 
Sister  Mary,  she  immediately  pretended  to  think  it  proceeded  from 
fatigue,  and  Mary,  who  was  simplicity  itself,  readily  credited  the 
idea.  The  prioress  soon  sent  her  upon  some  pretext  from  the 
room,  and  then,  in.  the  gentlest  terms,  begged  to  know  what  had 
«o  cruelly  alarmed  her  young  friend.  Amanda  had  already  con- 
fided to  the  prioress  the  events  of  her  life,  so  that  the  good  lady, 
on  hearing  Belgrave  now  mentioned,  no  longer  wondered  at  the 
ngitation  of  Amanda  ; yet,  as  her  fears  she  saw  were  too  powerful 
for  her  reason,  she  endeavored  to  convince  her  they  were  unneces- 
sary. She  called  to  her  remembrance  the  singular  protection  she 
had  already  experienced  from  Heaven,  and  the  protection  which, 
while  she  was  innocent,  she  would  still  have  a right  to  expect. 
She  also  mentioned  the  security  of  her  present  situation — encom- 


316 


THE  CHILDREN^  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


passed  by  friends  whose  integrity  could  not  be  warped,  and  whose 
utmost  zeal  would  be  manifested  in  defeating  any  stratagems 
which  might  be  laid  against  her. 

Amanda  grew  composed  as  she  listened  to  the  prioress.  She 
was  cheered  by  the  voice  of  piety  and  friendship,  and  her  heart 
again  felt  firm  and  elevated.  She  acknowledged  that  after  the  singu- 
lar, nay,  almost  miraculous  interpositions *of  Providence  she  had 
experienced  in  her  favor,  to  give  way  to  terror  or  despair  was  sin- 
ful, since  it  showed  a distrust  of  the  Power  who  has  promised  with 
guardian  care  to  watch  the  footsteps  of  the  innocent.  It  was,  how- 
ever, agreed  that  Amanda  should  venture  no  more  from  the  con- 
vent, but  confine  her  rambles  to  the  garden,  which  was  enclosed 
with  a high  wall,  and  had  no  places  of  concealment.  Five  weeks 
yet  remained  of  the  period  Lord  Mortimer  had  requested  her  to 
stay  at  St.  Catherine’s.  Before  it  was  expired  she  trusted  and  be- 
lieved Belgrave  would  be  weary  of  watching  her,  and  would  de- 
camp; if,  then,  she  neither  saw  nor  heard  from  Lord  Mortimer,  she- 
resolved  to  relinquish  all  hope  concerning  him,  and  immediately 
think  upon  some  plan  which  should  put  her  in  a way  of  procur- 
ing subsistence. 

Her  paintings  and  embroidery  still  went  on.  She  had  executed 
some  elegant  pictures  in  both,  which,  if  obliged  to  dispose  of, 
she  was  sure  would  bring  a good  price ; yet,  whenever  compelled 
by  reflection  to  this  idea,  the  tear  of  tender  melancholy  would  fall 
upon  her  lovely  cheek — a tear  which  was  ever  hastily  wiped  away 
while  she  endeavored  to  fortify  her  mind  with  pious  resignation 
to  whatever  should  be  her  future  fate. 

Three  weeks  more  elapsed  without  any  event  to  discompose 
their  tranquillity ; but  as  the  termination  of  the  destined  period 
approached,  the  agitation  of  Amanda,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to 
the  contrary,  increased.  She  deemed  the  awful  crisis  of  her  fate 
at  hand,  and  she  trembled  at  the  reflection.  She  now  for  the  first 
time  avoided  solitude.  She  wanted  to  fly  from  berself,  and  sat 
constantly  with  the  prioress,  who  had  nothing  of  the  gloomy  re- 
cluse, save  the  habit,  about  her. 

They  were  chattering  together  one  evening  after  tea  when  Sis- 
ter Mary  entered  the  room,  bearing  a large  packet,  which  she 
rather  tossed  than  presented  to  Amanda,  exclaiming,  ‘ From  Lord 
Mortimer ; I wish  the  troublesome  fellow  had  not  come  back  again ; 
here  we  shall  have  him  frisking  or  storming  continually,  and 
again  plaguing  us  out  of  our  lives.’  ‘From  Lord  Mortimer  !’ 
exclaimed  Amanda,  starting  from  her  chair,  and  clasping  the  let- 
ter between  her  hands.  ‘ Oh,  gracious  Heaven  ! ’ She  said  no 
more,  but  flew  from  the  room  to  her  chamber.  She  tore  open  the- 
seal.  The  envelope  contained  two  letters.  The  first  was  directed 
in  a hand  unknown  to  her.  Her  heart  si^jkened  as  she  dropped  it 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


317 


on  the  ground.  The  other  was  the  superscription  of  Lord  Morth 
mer.  She  opened  it  with  revived  spirits,  and  read  as  follows  : 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

I am  returned— returned  to  tell  my  Amanda  that  nothing  but  the  awful  fiat  of  Heaven 
shall  part  us  more.  Yes,  my  love,  a sweet  reward  for  all  our  difficulties,  our  trials — let 
me  add,  our  persevering  constancy — is  at  hand  ; and  one  name,  one  interest,  one  fate,  I 
trust,  will  soon  be  ours. 

Tears  of  joy  gushed  from  Amanda  as  she  exclaimed,  ‘ Can  this, 
can  this  be  true  ? Is  Lord  Mortimer,  so  long,  so  hopelessly  be- 
loved, indeed  returned  to  tell  me  we  shall  part  no  more  ? Tis 
true,  ’tis  true,  and  never  can  my  grateful  heart  sufficiently  ac- 
knowledge the  goodness  it  experiences ; but  how  was  this  event 
brought  about  ? ’ She  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  resumed  the 
letter. 

Your  solemn  refusal  to  unite  yourself  to  me  threw  me  into  agonies  ; but  true  love, 
like  true  courage,  will  never  despair,  will  never  yield  to  difficulties,  without  first  trying 
^very  effort  to  conquer  them.  I soon,  therefore,  roused  myself  from  the  heavy  weight 
which  oppressed  my  spirits  at  your  resolution,  and  ere  long  conceived  a project  so 
feasible,  so  almost  certain  of  success,  that  my  impatience  to  realize  it  cannot  be  de- 
scribed ; yet  you  may  conceive  some  idea  of  it  from  the  abrupt  manner  in  which  1 
quitted  Castle  Carberry,  without  desiring  to  bid  you  adieu  ; but  ere  it  could  be  accom- 
plished I plainly  saw  I had  many  difficulties  to  encounter,  difficulties  which  it  was  ab- 
solutely essential  to  overcome,  that  I might  prove  to  the  world  I was  not  the  dupe  of 
love,  but  the  friend,  the  lover,  and  the  vindicator  of  real  innocence  and  virtue.  From 
what  I have  said,  you  may  suppose  the  difficulties  I allude  to  were  such  as  I expected 
to  encounter  in  my  attempt  to  unravel  the  whole  of  the  deep  and  execrable  plot  which 
involved  you  in  a situation  so  distressing  to  your  feelings,  and  injurious  to  your  charac- 
ter ; and,  oh  I with  what  mingled  pride  and  [pleasure  did  I meditate  on  being  your 
champion,  clearing  your  fame  from  each  dark  aspersion,  and  proving,  clearly  proving, 
that  your  mind  was  as  lovely,  as  angelic,  as  your  person  ! 

I was  happy,  on  my  arrival  in  London,  to  find  Lady  Martha  Dormer  still  at  Lord  Cher* 
bury’s  house.  I have  already  told  you  that  I left  town  on  pretense  of  a visit  to  my 
sister,  in  Wales.  My  father,  I soon  perceived,  suspected  that  had  not  been  the  real 
motive  of  my  departure  : but  I also  perceived  he  did  not  desire  to  reveal  his  sus- 
picions, as  he  asked  some  questions  concerning  Lady  Araminta,  which,  you  may  be 
sure,  I answered  awkwardly  enough,  and,  had  a comic  writer  been  present,  he  might 
bave  taken  the  hint  of  a good  blundering  scene  from  us  both. 

The  Marquis  of  Roslin  and  his  family,  I learned,  continued  at  his  villa.  Their  ab- 
sence from  town  rejoiced  me,  as  it  not  only  exempted  me  from  society  I abhorred,  but, 
as  it  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  interrogating  their  household,  among  whom,  I was  con- 
vinced, I should  discover  th^ trusty  agents  the  amiable  marchioness  had  made  use 
of  in  her  scheme  against  you.  The  morning  after  my  arrival,  I accordingly  set  off  to 
Portman  Square.  The  man  who  opened  the  door  knew  me  not,  which  I considered  a 
lucky  circumstance,  for,  not  being  able  to  mention  my  name  to  the  housekeeper,  whom  i 
desired  him  to  send  to  me,  she  was  not  as  much  on  her  guard  as  she  would  otherwise 
have  been.  She  started  as  she  entered  the  parlor,  and  lifted  up  her  hands  and  eyes  wi ' h 
unfeigned  astonishment.  Soon,  however,  recovering  herself,  she  addressed  me  in  the 
most  obsequious  manner,  and  spoke  as  if  she  supposed  I was  come  purposely  to  inquire 
after  her  lord  and  lady,  an  artful  way  of  trying  to  terminate  her  own  suspense  by  learn- 
ing the  nature  of  my  visit.  I soon  gave  her  to  understand  it  was  not  of  the  most  amica- 
ble kind  to  her.  I came,  I said  to  demand  either  the  letter,  or  an  account  of  the  letter 
which  I had  intrusted  to  her  care  for  Miss  Fitzalan,  which  contained  a note  of  large 
value,  and  which,  I found,  had  never  been  received  by  that  yoiing  lady.  Her  conntr  n- 
ance  in  a moment  condemned  her— it  spoke  stronger  than  a thousand  totigues  against 
her.  She  first  grew  deadly  pale,  then  fiery  red  ; trembled,  faltered,  and  hung  her  herul 
to  avoid  my  eyes.  Her  looks,  I told  her,  confirmed  the  suspicions  I was  forced  to  cn 


318 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


luertain  of  her  integrity,  yet,  shocking  as  the  action  was  which  she  had  committed,  being 
not  only  a breach  of  trust,  but  humanity,  I was  vvillimj  to  come  to  an  easy  and  private 
accommodation  about  It,  provided  she  would  truly  and  fully  confess  the  part  she  had 
taken,  or  knew  of  others  to  have  taken,  in  injuring  Miss  Fitzalan, while  she  resided  m 
the  marquis’s  house,  by  bringing  Colonel  Belgrave  into  it.  I paused  for  her  reply.  She 
appeared  as  if  considering  how  she  should  act.  I thought  I saw  something  yielding  in 
her  face,  and,  eager  to  take  advantage  of  it,  I proceeded  : ‘ What  I have  already  said  I 
am  going  again  to  repeat,  that  is,  if  you  confess  all  you  know  relative  to  the  plot  wnich  ‘ 
was  contrived,  and  carried  into  execution,  in  this  house,  against  Miss  Fitza  an,  I will 
settle  everything  relative  to  the  letter  and  its  contents  in  a manner  pleasing  to  you. 
Her  innocence  is  unquestioned  by  me  : but  it  is  essential  to  her  peace  that  it  should 
also  be  so  to  the  rest  of  her  f riends,  and  they  who  regard  her  welfare  will  liberally  re- 
ward those  whose  allegations  shall  justify  her. 

Upon  this  she  turned  to  me,  with  a countenance  of  the  utmost  effrontery,  and  said 
she  would  not  tell  a lie  to  please  anyone.  I will  not  shock  you  by  repeating  all  she 
said.  She  ended,  by  saying,  as  to  the  letter  she  set  me  at  defiance  ; true,  I had  given 
her  one  for  Miss  Fitzalan,  but  I might  remember  Miss  Fitzalan  was  in  a fit  on  the 
ground  at  the  time,  and  she  had  called  in  other  servants  to  her  assistance,  she  said,  and 
in  the  hurry  and  bustle  which  ensued,  she  knew  not  what  became  of  it  ; others  might 
as  w’ell  be  called  upon  as  her.  I could  no  longer  command  my  temper.  I told  her  she 
was  a wretch,  and  only  fit  for  the  diabolical  service  in  which  she  was  employed.  The 
note  which  I inclosed  in  the  letter  I had  given  her  for  you,  I had  received  from  my 
father’s  agent  in  the  country : as  a post-note  I had  endorsed  it,  and  taken  the  number 
in  my  pocketbook.  I therefore  left  Portman  Square,  with  a resolution  of  going  to  the 
bank,  and,  if  not  already  received,  stopping  payment.  I stepped  into  the  first  hackney 
coach  I met,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  it  had  not  been  offered  at  the  bank.  I 
suspected  she  would  be  glad  to  exchange  it  for  cash  as  soon  as  possible,  and  therefore 
left  my  direction,  as  well  as  a request  for  the  detention  of  any  person  who  should  pre- 
sent it. 

In  consequence  of  this,  a clerk  came  the  following  morning  to  inform  me  a woman, 
had  presented  the  note  at  the  bank,  and  was,  agreeably  to  my  request,  detained  till  I 
appeared.  I immediately  returned  with  him,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the 
housekeeper  caught  in  the  snare.  She  burst  into  tears  at  my  appearance,  and  coming 
up  to  me,  in  a low  voice  said,  ‘ If  I would  have  mercy  upon  her,  she  would  in  retura 
make  a full  confession  of  all  she  knew  about  the  affair  I had  mentioned  to  her  yester- 
day.* I told  her,  though  she  deserved  no  mercy,  yet,  as  I had  promised  on  such  con- 
dition to  show  her  lenity,  I would  mot  violate  my  word.  I received  the  note,  sent  for  a 
coach,  and  handing  the  lady  into  it,  soon  conveyed  her  to  Portman  Square.  She  no 
sooner  entered  the  parlor  than  she  fell  on  her  knees  and  besought  my  forgiveness.  I 
bade  her  rise,  and  lose  no  time  in  revealing  all  she  knew  concerning  the  scheme  against 
you.  She  then  confessed  that  both  she  and  Mrs.  Jane,  the  attendant  who  had  been 
placed  about  your  person,  were  acquainted  and  concerned  in  all  the  contrivances  the 
marchioness  had  laid  against  you,  who  scrupled  not  in  acknowledging  to  them  the 
inveterate  hatred  she  bore  you.  Their  scruples— for  they  pretended  to  have  some  in 
abetting  her  schemes — were  overruled,  by  knowing  how  much  it  was  in  her  power  to 
njure  them  in  any  future  establishment,  had  they  disobliged  her,  and  by  her  liberal 
promises  of  reward,  which  the  housekeeper  added  she  had  never  kept.  But  this  brief 
and  uncircumstantial  account  was  by  no  means  satisfactory  to  me.  I called  for 
materials  for  writing,  and  insisted  she  should,  to  the  best  of  her  recollection,  relate 
every  word  or  circumstance  which  had  ever  passed  between  her  and  the  marchioness 
and  their  other  associates  relative  to  you.  She  hesitated  at  this.  On  those  terms  only 
I said  I would  grant  her  my  forgiveness  ; and  by  her  complying  with  them,  not  only 
that,  but  a liberal  recompense  should  be  hers.  This  last  promise  had  the  desired  effect. 
She  laid  open,  indeed,  a scene  of  complicated  iniquity  ; related  the  manner  in  which 
Colonel  Belgrave  was  brought  into  the  house  by  her  and  Mrs.  Jane  ; how  they  had 
stationed  themselves  in  a place  of  concealment  to  listen,  by  which  means  they  knew 
what  passed  between  you,  w'hich  she  now,  in  almost  the  very  same  words  you  made  use 
of,  repeated  to  me.  As  she  spoke  I wrote  it,  and  made  her  sign  the  paper  under  a para- 
graph purporting  that  it  was  a true  confession  of  the  part  she  had  taken,  and  knew 
others  to  have  taken,  in  attempting  to  injure  Miss  Fitzalan. 

I now  mentioned  Mrs.  Jane,  whose  evidence  I wished  for  to  corroborate  hers.  This 
she  assured  me  I might  procure  by  promising  a reward,  as  Mrs.  Jane  was  much  dissatls- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


319 


fied  with  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  neither  of  whom  had  recompensed  her 
as  she  expected  for  lier  faithful  services  to  them.  She  was  now  at  the  villa  ; but  the 
housekeeper  added  that  she  would  strike  out  some  expedient  to  bring  her  to  town  in 
the  course  of  the  week,  and  would  inform  me  immediately  of  her  arrival.  I told  her  the 
affair  of  the  note  should  be  no  more  mentioned,  and  gave  a bill  for  fifty  pounds,  as  the 
reward  I had  promised,  and  she  eagerly  expected.  I told  her  she  might  promise  a 
similar  one  in  my  name  to  Mrs.  Jane,  provided  she  also  told  the  truth.  I also  told  1 er  I 
would  take  care  she  should  suffer  no  distress  by  quitting  the  marquis’s  family,  which 
she  lamented  would  be  the  consequence  of  what  she  had  done. 

Mrs.  Jane  did  not  come  to  town  as  soon  as  I expected.  But  on  receiving  a summons 
to  inform  me  of  her  arrival,  I hastened  to  the  house  like  an  inquisitor-general  with  my 
scroll,  prepared  to  take  the  confession  of  the  fair  culprit,  which  exactly  corresponded 
with  the  housekeeper’s,  and  I had  the  felicity  of  seeing  her  subscribe  her  name  to  it. 
I gave  her  the  promised  recompense  most  cheerfully,  as  I had  not  half  so  much  trouble 
in  making  her  tell  the  truth  as  I had  with  the  housekeeper.  Mrs.  Jennings,  your  old  land- 
lady, and  Lady  Greystock’s  faithful  friend,  was  the  next  and  last  person  whose  malice 
I wanted  to  refute.  I made  my  servant  inquire  her  character  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
learned  it  was  considered  a very  suspicious  one.  I went  to  her  one  morning  in  my 
carriage,  well  knowing  that  the  appearance  of  rank  and  splendor  would  have  greater 
weight  in  influencing  a being  like  her  to  justice  than  any  plea  of  conscience.  She  ap- 
peared lost  in  astonishment  and  confusion  at  my  visit,  and  I saw  waited  with  trembling 
expectation  to  have  the  reason  of  it  revealed.  T kept  her  not  long  in  suspense  ; I was 
the  friend,  I told  her,  of  a young  lady,  whose  character  she  had  vilely  and  falsely  as- 
persed. Her  conscience,  I believed,  would  whisper  to  her  heart  the  name  of  this  lady, 
and  send  its  crimson  current  to  her  face  at  the  mention  of  Miss  Fitzalan. 

The  wretch  seemed  ready  to  sink  to  the  earth.  I repeated  to  her  all  she  had  said 
concerning  you  to  Lady  Greystock.  I told  her  of  the  consequences  of  defamation,  and 
declared  she  might  expect  the  utmost  rigor  of  the  law,  except  she  confessed  her  asser- 
tions were  infamous  falsehoods,  and  the  motives  which  instigated  her  to  them.  She 
trembled  with  terror,  and  supplicated  mercy.  I desired  her  to, deserve  it  by  her  con- 
fession. She  then  acknowledged  she  had  grossly  and  cruelly  wronged  you  by  what 
she  had  said  to  Lady  Greystock,  and  that  she  had  many  opportunities  of  being  con- 
vinced, while  you  resided  in  her  house,  that  your  virtue  and  innocence  were  of  the 
purest  nature  ; but  that  she  was  provoked  to  speak  maliciously  against  you  Irom  re- 
sentment at  losing  all  the  rich  gifts  Colonel  Belgrave  had  promised  her  if  she  brought 
you  to  comply  with  his  wishes.  She  related  all  the  stratagems  they  had  mutually  con- 
certed for  your  destruction,  and  she  brought  me  some  letters  which  I kept,  from  him  to 
you,  and  which  she  pretended  you  had  received,  lest  she  should  lose  the  money  he 
always  gave  when  she  was  successful  in  delivering  one.  I bid  her  beware  how  she 
ever  attempted  to  vilify  innocence,  lest  the  friends  of  those  at  whom  she  leveled  the 
arrows  of  defamation  should  not  be  as  merciful  to  her  as  Miss  Fitzalan’s  had  been; 
and  was  the  tale  of  the  slanderer  thus  ever  to  be  minutely  investigated,  the  evil  might 
die  away  by  degrees,  and  many  hapless  victims  escape,  who  are  daily  sacrificed 
malice,  revenge,  or  envy. 

Oh  ! my  Amanda,  I cannot  express  the  transports  I felt  when  I found  the  difficul- 
ties, which  I dreaded  as  intervening  between  me  and  happiness,  thus  removed.  I fe»i 
myself  the  happiest  of  men ; my  heart  acknowledged  your  worth,  I was  convinced 
your  love,  and  in  my  hands  I held  the  refutation  of  falsehood,  and  the  confirmation  ot 
your  innocence. 

The  period  for  mentioning  my  project  was  now  arrived.  I desired,  the  morning 
after  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Jennings,  to  be  indulged  in  a tete-a-tete  in  Lady  Martha’s  dress- 
ing room.  I believed  she  half  guessed  what  the  subject  of  it  would  be  ; she  saw  by 
my  countenance  there  was  joyful  news  at  hand.  I shall  nor.  recapitulate  our  conversa- 
tion ; suffice  it  to  say,  that  her  excellent  feeling  heart  participated  largely  in  my  satis- 
faction ; it  did  more  than  participate,  it  wished  to  increase  it,  and  ere  I could  mention 
my  project,  she  declared  my  Amanda  should  henceforth  be  considered  as  her  adopted 
daughter,  and  should  from  her  receive  such  a fortune  as  such  a title  claimed.  Yes,  my 
Amanda,  the  fortune  she  ever  destined  for  me,  she  said  she  should  now  consecrate  to 
the  purpose  of  procuring  me  a treasure  the  most  valuable  Heaven  could  bestow;— the 
richest — the  most  valuable  indeed — a treasure  dearer,  far  dearer  to  my  soul  for  all  the 
danger  it  has  encountered.  I fell  at  Lady  Martha’s  feet  in  a transport  of  gratitude,  and 
acknowledged  that  she  had  anticipated  what  I was  going  to  say,  as  I had  been  deter* 


320 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


mined  to  throw  myself  on  her  generosity  from  the  time  I was  convinced  of  your  inflex 
ible  resolution,  not  to  unite  yourself  to  me  without  you  brought  a fortune. 

It  was  now  agreed  we  should  keep  Lord  Cherbury  a little  longer  ignorant  of  our  im 
tentions.  We  proposed  taking  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  by  surprise,  and 
hoped,  by  so  doing,  to  be  able  to  remove  from  his  eyes  the  mist  which  partiality  had 
hitherto  spread  before  them  to  obscure  the  defects  of  the  above-mentioned  ladies. 

lie  had  hinted  more  than  once  his  wishes  for  my  paying  my  compliments  at  the  mar- 
quis’s villa.  I now  proposed  going  thither  myself  the  ensuing  day.  He  looked  equally 
surprised  and  pleased  at  this  proposal ; Lady  Martha  agreed  to  accompany  me,  and  his 
lordship,  you  may  be  sure,  determined  to  be  one  of  the  party,  that  he  might  supply 
the  deflciencies  of  his  son,  which  he  had  heretofore  found  pretty  manifest  in  such 
society. 

We  had  the  happiness  to  find  all  the  family  at  home  when  we.  reached  the  villa. 
The  ladies  all  expressed  themselves  delighted  at  my  unexpected  appearance,  and  quite 
charmed  by  my  recovered  looks.  The  marquis,  with  his  usual  san^roid^  declared  him- 
self glad  to  see  me.  Ye  smiling  deceivers,  I cried  to  myself,  as  I surveyed  the  mar- 
chioness and  Lady  Euphrasia,  your  triumph  over  innocence  and  beauty  will  soon  be  over. 
After  passing  half  an  hour  in  uninteresting  chitchat,  I took  the  opportunity  of  one  of 
those  pauses  in  conversation,  which  so  frequently  happen,  to  commence  my  attack. 
It  would  be  as  painful  to  you  as  to  me  to  recapitulate  all  which  ensued  in  consequence 
of  it.  Rage,  guilt,  and  confusion,  were  conspicuous  in  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Eu- 
phrasia. The  marquis  and  Lady  Greystock  looked  with  astonishment,  and  my  father 
seemed  overwhelmed  with  surprise  and  consternation. 

I said  (addressing  the  marchioness),  I now  trusted  the  resentment  her  ladyship  had 
entertained  against  her  unoffended  niece  was  sufficiently  appeased  by  what  she  had 
made  her  suffer,  and  that  she  would  rather  rejoice  than  regret  the  opportunity  which 
presented  itself  of  vindicating  her  fame.  I wished,  I saio,  as  much  as  possible,  to 
spare  her  ladyship’s  feelings,  and  provided  she  would  clear  Miss  Fitzalan  from  the  ob- 
loquy which  the  transactions  in  her  house  cast  upon  her,  I was  willing  to  conceal  the 
share  her  ladyship  had  in  them. 

In  a voice  of  smothered  rage,  and  with  a look  into  which  she  threw  as  much  con- 
tempt as  possible,  she  replied,  ‘ She  thanked  me  for  the  attention  I professed  myself  in, 
dined  to  pay  her  feelings,  but  she  fancied  I had  overlooked  all  inclination  of  this  kind 
when  I undertook  to  bribe  her  servants  to  asperse  her  character,  that  Miss  Fitzalan’s 
might  be  cleared.  She  was  sorry,’  she  said,  ‘ to  find  I could  be  capable  of  such  com- 
plicated baseness  and  w eakness.  Miss  Fitzalan,  she  perceived,  had  made  Il^^me  her 
dupe  again;  but  this  was  not  surprising,  as  she  was  the  professed  pupil  of  art.  Too 
late  I should  behold  her  in  her  native  colors,  and  find  the  disgrace,  which,  by  artifice, 
I now  attempted  to  remove  from  her  character,  thrown  back  upon  her,  perhaps,  to 
overwhelm  me  also  by  its  weight.’ 

‘ She  has  infatuated  him,’  said  Lord  Cherbury  ; ‘ she  will  be  the  bane  of  his  life,the 
destruction  of  my  hopes.’  ‘Not  Miss  Fitzalan,’  cried  I,  assuming  as  much  coolness 
as  possible,  though,  like  the  marchioness,  I found  it  a difficult  task ; ‘ not  Miss  Fitzalan 
but  the  enemies  of  Miss  Fitzalan  deceived  me.  I own  I was  the  dupe  of  the  scheme 
contrived  against  her.  Anything  so  horrid,  so  monstrous,  so  execrable,  I did  not 
think  could  have  entered  into  the  minds  of  those  who  were  bound  by  the  united  ties  of 
kindred  and  hospitality  to  protect  her,  and  I rather  believed  I owed  my  misery  to  the 
frailty  than  to  the  turpitude  of  human  nature.’  ‘You  see,  my  lord,’  exclaimed  the 
marchioness,  turning  to  Lord  Cherbury,’  ‘ Lord  Mortimer  acknowledges  his  passion 
for  this  wretched  girl.'  ‘ I do,’ cried  I,  ‘ I glory  in  confessing  it.  In  loving  Miss 
’Fitzalan,  I love  virtue  itself . In  acknowledging  a passion  for  her,  I violate  no  faith, 
I break  no  engagement ; my  heart  ever  resisted  entering  into  any  which  it  could  not 
fulfill.’  ‘ Unfortunate  prepossession,’  said  Lord  Cherbury,  sternly.  ‘But  why,  why, 
when  you  believed  her  guilty,  were  you  so  infatuated  as  to  follow  her  to  Ireland. 
Why  not  calmly  resign  her  to  the  infamy  she  merited  ? ’ ‘I  followed  her,  my  lord,’  I 
replied,  ‘ in  hope  to  withdraw  her  from  her  seducer’s  arms,  and  place  her  in  her 
father’s.  I hoped,  I trusted,  I should  be  able  also  too  alleviate  the  bitter  destiny  of 
poor  Fitzalan.  Alas  I not  in  the  arras  of  a gay,  successful  seducer,  but  apparently  in 
the  arms  of  death,  did  I find  Amanda.  I saw  her  at  the  solemn  hour  which  consigned 
her  parent  to  his  grave,  and  to  have  doubted  her  protestations  of  innocence  then  would 
have  been  almost  impious.  Gracious  Heaven,  how  impossible  to  disbelieve  her  truth 
at  the  very  moment  her  gentle  spirit  seemed  about  to  take  its  flight  to  heaven  I Front 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


321 


that  period  ehe  hag  stood  acquitted  in  my  mind  and  from  that  period  I determined  to 
develop,  to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  the  machinations  which  had  made  me  doubt  her 
innocence.  My  success  m their  development  has  been  beyond  my  expectations  ; but 
Providence  is  on  the  side  of  suffering  virtue,  and  assists  those  who  stand  up  in  its  sup- 
port,’ Contrary  to  my  first  intention,  my  dear  Amanda,  I have  given  you  a sketch  of 
part  of  our  conversation.  For  the  remainder,  it  shall  suffice  to  say,  that  the  mar- 
chioness persevered  in  declaring  I had  bribed  her  servants  to  blacken  her  character,  in 
order  to  clear  Miss  Fitzaian’s,  an  attempt,  she  repeatedly  assured  me,  I would  find  un- 
successful. 

The  marquis  talked  m high  terms  of  the  dignity  of  his  house,  and  how  impossible  it 
was  the  marchioness  should  ever  have  disgraced  it  by  such  actions  as  I accused  her  of 
committing.  I answered  him  in  a manner  equally  warm,  that  my  accuse tions  were 
too  well  grounded  and  supported  to  dread  refutation.  That  it  was  not  only  due  to  in- 
jured innocence,  but  essential  to  my  own  honor,  which  would  soon  be  materially  con- 
cerned in  whatever  related  to  Miss  Fitzalan,  to  have  those  accusations  made  public,  if 
her  ladyship  refused  to  contradict  the  aspersions  which  might  be  thrown  upon  Miss 
Fitzalan,  in  consequence  of  the  scene  which  passed  at  his  Lordship  s house. 

This  the  marchioness,  with  fmingled  rage  and  contempt,  refused  doing,  and  Lady 
Euphrasia,  after  the  hint  I gave  of  soon  being  united  to  you,  left  the  room  in  convul- 
sive agitation. 

Lord  Cherbury,  I perceived,  suspected  foul  play,  by  some  speeches  which  dropped 
from  him,  such  as,  if  there  had  been  any  misunderstanding  between  her  ladyship  and 
Miss  Fitzalan,  it  was  better,  surely,  to  have  it  done  away,  or  certainly,  if  any  mistake 
was  proved  relative  to  the  affair  which  happened  in  her  ladyship’s  house,  it  was  but 
justice  to  the  young  lady  to  have  it  cleared  up. 

Yet,  notw  ithstanding  the  interest  he  felt  in  the  cause  of  suffering  innocence,  it  was 
obvious  to  me  that  he  dreaded  a rupture  with  the  marquis’s  family,  and  appeared 
shocked  at  the  unequivocal  declaration  I had  made  of  never  being  allied  to  it. 

Lady  Martha  Dormer  took  up  the  cause.  The  testimony  Lord  Mortimer  had  received 
she  said,  of  Miss  Fitzaian’s  innocence  was  incontrovertible,  and  exempted  him  alike 
from  being  stigmatized  either  as  the  dupe  of  art  or  love.  Humanity,  she  was  convinced, 
exclusive  of  every  warmer  feeling,  would  have  influenced  him  to  have  undertaken  Miss 
Fitzaian’s  cause;  it  was  the  cause  of  innocence  and  virtue— a cause  in  which  every 
detester  of  scandal  and  treachery  should  join,  since  not  only  the  defenseless  orphan, 
but  the  protected  child  of  rank  and  prosperity,  was  vulnerable  to  their  shafts. 

I again  repeated  the  evidence  of  her  servants,  and  the  refutation  of  Mrs.  Jennings  to 
her  former  story.  I produced,  to  strengthen  it,  the  unopened  letters  of  Colonel  Bel- 
grave— thus  continuing  to  put  proof  upon  proof  of  your  innocence,  as  Sancho  Panza 
says,  upon  the  shoulders  of  demonstration. 

The  passions  of  the  marchioness  rose  at  last  to  frantic  violence.  She  persisted  in  al- 
leging her  integrity,  and  vilifying  yours  ; but  with  a countenance  so  legibly  impressed 
w'ith  guilt  and  confusion,  that  a doubt  of  her  falsehood  could  not  be  entertained  even 
by  those  who  wished  to  doubt  it. 

The  scene  of  violence  we  now  became  witness  to  was  painful  to  me,  and  shocking  to 
Lady  Martha.  I therefore  ordered  the  horses  immediately  to  her  ladyship’s  chariot,  in 
which,  accompanied  by  me,  she  had  preceded  Lord  Cherbury’s  coach,  from  the  idea 
that  our  countinuance  at  the  villa  might  not  be  quite  so  long  as  his  lordship’s. 

As  we  expected,  his  lordship  stayed  behind,  with  the  hope,  I perceived,  of  being  able 
to  calm  the  perturbations  of  the  marchioness,  and  lessen  the  breach  between  us.  He 
returned  the  next  day  to  town.  I have  so  long  dwelt  upon  disagreeable  scenes,  that  to 
go  over  any  others  would  be  dreadful  ; nor  should  I hint  to  you  that  I had  such* 
scenes  to  encounter,  was  it  not  to  excuse  and  account  to  you  for  my  absence  from  Cas- 
tle Carberry.  Our  difficulties  (you  see  I already  unite  your  interests  with  mine)  began 
to  decrease,  and  are  at  last  happily  overcome.  Lady  Martha  made  me  write  her  inten- 
tions relative  to  you,  and  his  lordship  was  quite  satisfied  with  them.  He  authorizes  me 
to  assure  you,  he  longs  to  receive  you  into  his  family,  at  once  a boast  and  acquisition 
to  it,  and  he  says  he  shall  consider  himself  under  obligations  to  you,  if  you  hasten,  as 
much  as  possible),  the  period  of  becoming  one  of  its  members,  thus  giving  him  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  early  amends,  by  attention  to  the  daughter,  for  the  injustice  he  did 
the  father. 

Lady  Martha  Dormer’s  intentions  I have  only  hinted  to  you  ; in  the  letter,  wffiich  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  inclosing,  she  is  more  explicit  concerning  them.  I have  given 


322 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


you  this  long  narrative  on  paper,  that  when  we  meet  our  conversation  may  be  unem- 
bittered by  any  painful  retrospect,  and  that  we  may  enjoy  uninterrupted  the  bright 
prospect  which  now  lies  before  us. 

But  ere  I close  my  letter,  I must  inform  you  that,  knowing  you  could  never  be 
selfishly  wrapped  up  in  your  own  enjoyments,  I made  every  possible  inquiry  relative  to 
your  brother,  and  was  at  length  referred  by  the  agent  of  his  late  regiment  to  an  officer 
in  it ; with  some  difficulty  I found  he  had  quitted  his  quarters  on  leave  of  absence.  I 
wrote  immediately  to  his  family  residence,  and  after  waiting  long  and  impatiently  for 
an  answer  to  my  letter,  I dispatched  a special  messenger  to  learn  whether  he  was  there 
or  not.  The  courier  returned  with  a polite  note  from  the  officer’s  father  informing  me 
his  son  was  gone  on  an  excursion  of  pleasure  with  some  friends,  and  that  if  he  knew 
where  to  find  him,  he  would  ;have  transmitted  my  letter,  which  I might  depend  on  be- 
ing answered  the  moment  he  returned,  I have  no  doubt  but  we  shall  receive  intelli- 
gence from  him  concerning  Mr.  Fitzalan.  It  shall  then  be  our  business,  if  his  situation 
is  not  already  pleasing,  to  change  it,  or  render  it  as  much  so  as  possible  to  him.  Keep  up 
your  spirits,  therefore,  about  him,  for  by  the  time  we  arrive  in  England  I expect  a letter 
from  his  friend,  and  let  me  not  be  any  more  pained  by  seeing  your  countenance  clouded 
with  care  or  anxiety.  As  a reward  for  reining  in  my  impatience  to  see  you  this  even- 
ing, be  propitious  to  my  request  for  early  admission  to-morrow.  If  charitable,  you  will 
allow  me  to  breakfast  with  you,  for  I shall  take  none  except  with  you  ; and  without  an 
express  command  to  the  contrary,  shall  take  it  for  granted  I am  expected.  ’Tis  said 
that  contrast  heightens  pleasure,  and  I believe  the  saying — I believe  that,  without  hav- 
ing felt  pain  in  all  its  acuteness,  as  I have  done,  I never  should  have  felt  such  pleasure 
as  I now  enjoy.  After  so  often  giving  you  up,  so  often  lamenting  you  as  lost  forever, 
to  think  1 shall  soon  call  you  mine,  is  a source  of  transport  which  words  cannot  express. 
Mine,  I may  say,  is  the  resurrection  of  happiness,  for  has  it  not  been  revived  from  the 
very  grave  of  despair  ? But  I forgot  that  you  have  Lady  Martha  Dormer’s  letter  still  to 
peruse.  I acknowledge  that,  for  old  friendship’s  sake,  I supposed  you  would  give  mine 
the  preference  ; but  in  all  reason  it  is  time  I should  resign  my  place  to  her  ladyship. 
But  ere  I bid  you  adieu,  I must  tell  you  that  Araminta  is  a sincere  participator  in  our 
ihappiness.  She  arrived  from  Wales  but  a few  minutes  previous  to  my  leaving  London 
.and  I would  not  allow  her  time,  as  she  wished,  to  write  to  you.  I almost  forgot  to  tell 
you  that^the  marquis’s  family,  among  whom  Lady  Greystock  is  still  numbered,  instead 
of  returning  to  town,  set  out  for  Brighthelmstone.  I have  learned,  contrary  to  my  and 
their  expectations,  that  neither  the  housekeeper  nor  Mrs.  Jane  have  been  dismissed,  but 
both  sent  to  a distant  seat  of  the  marquis’s.  As  w'e  know  the  m'lrchioness’s  revengeful 
■disposition,  it  is  plain  she  has  some  secret  motive  for  not  gratifying  it  immediately 
by  their  dismission  ; but  what  it  is  can  be  of  little  consequence  for  us  to  learn,  since 
we  are  both  too  well  guarded  to  suffer  from  any  future  plot  of  hers.  Like  every  other 
which  was  formed  against  my  dear  Amanda,  I trust  they  will  ever  prove  abortive.  I 
was  disturbed  within  a few  miles  of  Castle  Carberry  by  a gentleman  passing  on  horse- 
1t)ack,  who  either  strongly  resembled,  or  was  Colonel  Belgrave.  My  blood  boiled  in  my 
veins  at  ids  sight.  I left  the  carriage,  mounted  one  of  my  servant’s  horses,  and  en- 
deavored to  overtake  him.  He  certainly  avoided  me  by  taking  some  cross-road,  as  his 
speed  could  not  have  outstripped  mine.  My  efforts  to  discover  his  habitation  were 
equally  unsuccessful.  As  to  your  personal  security  I had  no  apprehensions,  having 
heard  constantly  from  my  good  friend  the  doctor  about  you  ; but  I drr aded  the  wretch, 
if  it  were  really  him,  might  disturb  your  tranquillity,  either  by  forcing  into  your  presence 
or  writing.  Thank  Heaven,  from  all  intrusions  or  dangers  of  this  kind  my  Amanda 
will  now  be  guarded.  But  again  am  I trespassing  on  the  time  you  should  devote  to 
Lady  Martha’s  letter.  Adieu,  and  do  not  disappoint  my  hopes  of  being  allowed  to  visit 
y.)u  early. 

Mortimer. 

Amanda  perused  this  letter  with  emotions  which  can  be  better 
conceived  than  described.  She  could  scarcely  have  parted  with  it 
without  a second  reading*,  had  not  Lady  Martha’s  demanded  her 
attention.  She  snatched  it  hastily  from  the  g*round,  where  it  hither- 
to lay  neglected,  and  read  to  the  following  purpose  : 

That  I warmly  and  sincerely  congratulate  my  dear  and  amiable  Miss  Fitzalan  on  the 


THE  CHILDKEX  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


323 


happy  revolution  in  her  affairs,  she  will  readily  believe,  persuaded  as  she  must  be  of 
the  deep  interest  I take  in  whatever  concerns  a person  on  whom  the  happiness  of  him 
whom  I have  loved  from  childhood  so  materially — so  entirely,  I may  say— depends. 

Yet  do  not  suppose  me,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  so  selfish  as  not  to  be  able  to  rejoice 
at  your  happiness  on  your  own  account,  exclusive  of  every  consideration  relative  to 
Lord  Mortimer.  Long  since  I was  taught  by  description  to  esteem  and  admire  you,  and 
even  when  the  hope  of  being  connected  with  you  became  extinct,  I could  not  so  totally 
forego  that  admiration  as  to  feel  uninterested  about  you.  Oh  ! how  truly  do  I rejoice 
at  the  revival  of  the  hope  I have  just  mentioned,  and  at  its  revival  with  ev€ry  prospect 
of  its  being  speedily  realized  ! I shall  consider  Lord  Mortimer  as  one  of  the  most  for- 
tunate of  men  in  ealling  you  his,  and  to  think  I have  been  able  to  promote  his  happiness 
gives  me  a satisfaction  which  never  was,  nor  ever  will  be,  equaled  by  any  circumstance 
in  my  life. 

Though  I cannot  give  my  adopted  daughter  a fortune  by  any  means  equal  to  that, 
which  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  will  possess,  Lord  Cherbury  is  fully  sensible  that  her 
perfections  will  abundantly  make  up  for  any  deficiency  in  this  respect.  Ten  thousand 
pounds,  and  one  thousand  a year,  is  at  present  to  be  her  portion,  and  the  reversion  of 
the  remainder  of  my  fortune  is  to  be  secqred  to  her  and  Lord  Mortimer  ; the  final  adjust- 
ment of  all  affairs  is  to  take  place  at  my  house  in  the  country,  whither  I propose  going 
immediately,  accompanied  by  Lady  Araminta,  and  where  we  shall  both  most  impatiently 
expect  your  arrival,  which,  we  mutually  entreat,  may  be  hastened  as  much  as  possible 
consistent  with  your  health  and  convenience.  Lord  Cherbury  has  promised  to  follow 
us  in  a few  days,  so  that  I suppose  he  will  also  be  at  Thornbury  to  rcjceive  you.  Would 
to  Heaven,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  injured  virtue  and  innocence  may  always  meet  with 
such  champions  to  vindicate  them  as  Lord  Mortimer.  Was  that  the  case,  we  should  see 
many  lovely  victims  of  scorn  and  reproach  raieing  their  heads  with  triumph  and  satis- 
faction. But  pardon  my  involuntarily  adverting  to  past  scenes,  though,  at  the  same 
time,  I think  you  have  reason  to  rejoice  at  your  trials,  which  served  as  so  many  tests 
and  proofs  of  the  estimable  qualities  you  possess.  Farewell,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan. 
I have  been  brief  in  my  letter,  because  I know  I should  not  be  pardoned  by  a certain 
person,  if  I engrossed  too  much  of  your  time.  I told  him  I would  give  you  a hint  of  the- 
impetuosity  of  his  disposition  ; but  he  told  me,  perhaps  to  prevent  this,  that  you  were^ 
already  acquainted  with  it.  In  one  instance  I shall  commend  him  for  displaying  it ; that 
is,  in  hastening  you  to  Thornbury,  to  the  arms  of  your  sincere  and  affectionate  friend, 

Martha  Dormer. 

Amanda’s  happiness  was  now  almost  as  great  as  it  could  be  in 
this  world  ; almost,  I say,  for  it  received  alloy  from  the  melancholy 
consideration  that  her  father,  that  faithful  and  affectionate  friend 
who  had  shared  her  troubles,  could  not  be  a partaker  of  her  joys  ; 
but  the  sigh  of  unavailing  regret  which  rose  in  her  mind  she 
checked  by  reflecting,  that  happiness  all  perfect  was  more  thar.. 
humanity  could  either  support  or  expect,  and  with  pious  gratitude 
she  bent  to  the  Power  who  had  changed  the  discolored  prospecu 
by  which  she  had  been  so  long  surrounded,  into  one  of  cheerfiu 
ness  and  beauty. 

If  her  pride  was  wounded  by  the  hint,  though  so  delicately 
conveyed,  which  Lord  Mortimer  had  given  of  the  difficulties  he 
encountered  in  gaining  Lord  Cherbury \s  approbation,  it  was  in- 
stantly relieved  by  the  flattering  commendations  of  Lady  Martha 
Dormer,  and  to  be  connected  with  her  and  Lady  Araminta,  she 
looked  upon  among  the  most  valuable  blessings  she  could  enjoy. 

To  express  what  she  felt  for  Lord  Mortimer  would  be  impossi- 
ble— language  could  not  do  justice  to  her  feelings — she  felt  love,, 
gratitude,  and  admiration  for  him,  all  in  the  fullest  extent,  and 


324 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


all  united,  and  she  wept  in  the  fullness  of  her  heart  over  the  joj^ 
ful  assurance  of  being  his.  With  the  two  letters  in  her  hand, 
she  repaired  to  the  prioress’s  apartment,  whom  she  found  alone. 
The  good  old  lady  saw  the  traces  of  tears  on  Amanda’s  face,  and 
exclaimed,  in  a voice  which  evinced  her  sympathy  in  her  con- 
cerns, ‘ Oh  ! I fear,  my  child,  something  has  happened  to  dis- 
' turb  you  ! ’ Amanda  presented  her  the  letters,  and  bid  her  judge 
from  them  whether  she  had  not  reason  to  be  agitated.  As  the 
prioress  read,  her  sudden  and  broken  exclamations  manifested 
her  surprise  and  pleasure,  and  frequently  were  her  spectacles  re- 
moved to  wipe  from  off  them  the  tears  of  joy  by  which  they  were 
bedewed.  When  she  finished  the  welcome  packet,  she  turned  to 
Amanda,  who  had  been  attentively  watching  the  various  turns 
in  her  countenance,  and  gave  her  a congratulatory  embrace. 
^ Lord  Mortimer  is  worthy  of  you,  my  child,’  said  the  prioress, 
^ and  that  is  the  highest  eulogium  I can  pass  on  him.’  After 
commenting  upon  different  parts  of  the  letter,  she  asked  Amanda, 
a little  archly,  ‘ whether  she  intended  sending  an  express  com- 
mand to  his  lordship  against  coming  early  in  the  morning?’ 
Amanda  honestly  confessed  she  had  no  such  intention,  and  ex- 
pressed her  wish  to  behold  him.  The  prioress  said  she  would  have 
breakfast  prepared  for  them  in  the  garden  parlor,  and  that  she 
would  take  care  they  should  not  be  interrupted.  She  also  promised 
to  keep  everything  secret  till  matters  were  arranged  for  Amanda’s 
removal  from  St.  Catherine’s. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign  ; 

And  shall  we  never — never  part, 

Oh  1 thou  my  all  that’s  mine. — Goldsmith. 

Joy  is  as  great  an  enemy  to  repose  as  anxiety.  Amanda  passed 
an  almost  sleepless  night,  but  her  thoughts  were  too  agreeably 
employed  to  allow  her  to  suffer  from  want  of  rest ; early  as  she 
arose  in  the  morning,  she  was  but  a short  time  in  the  parlor  be- 
fore Lord  Mortimer  arrived.  He  appeared  with  all  the  transports 
of  his  soul  beaming  from  his  eyes,  and  was  received  by  Amanda 
with  tender  and  trembling  emotion.  He  caught  her  to  his  heart 
is  a treasure  restored  .to  him  by  the  immediate  hand  of  Heaven. 
He  pressed  her  to  it  with  silent  ecstasy.  Both  for  a few  moments 
were  unable  to  speak  ; but  the  tears  which  burst  from  Amanda, 
and  those  that  stopped  on  the  glowing  cheeks  of  Lord  Mortimer, 
expressed  their  feelings  more  forcibly  than  any  language  could 
have  done. 

Amanda  at  length  found  utterance,  and  began  to  thank  his  lord- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


325 


ship  for  all  the  difficulties  he  had  gone  through  in  vindicating  her 
fame.'  He  hastily  stopped  those  effusions  of  gratitude,  by  bidding 
her  ask  her  heart  whether  he  had  not  been  serving  himself  as 
well  as  her  by  what  he  had  done. 

From  the  soft  confusion  into  which  his  transports  threw  her, 
Amanda  endeavored  to  recover  herself  by  repairing  to  the  break- 
fast table,  on  which  the  good  sisters  had  spread  all  the  niceties 
(adapted  for  a morning  repast)  which  the  convent  could  produce  ; 
but  her  hand  was  unsteady,  she  spilt  the  tea  in  pouring  it  out,  and 
committed  twenty  blunders  in  helping  Lord  Mortimer.  He 
laughed  a little  archly  at  her  embarrassment,  and  insisted  on  do- 
ing the  honors  of  the  table  himself,  to  which  Amanda,  with  a 
deep  blush,  consented  ; but  breakfast  was  little  attended  to. 
Amanda’s  hand  was  detained  in  Lord  Mortimer’s,  while  his  eyes 
were  continually  turning  toward  her,  as  if  to  assure  his  heart  that, 
in  the  lovely  evidence  of  his  happiness,  there  was  no  deception  ; 
and  the  tenderness  Amanda  had  no  longer  reason  to  restrain 
beamed  from  her  looks,  which  also  evinced  her  perfect  sensibility 
of  her  present  felicity — a felicity  heightened  by  her  approving 
conscience  testifying  she  had  merited  it.  The  pure,  the  delightful 
satisfaction  resulting  from  this  reflection  gave  such  radiance  to 
her  complexion,  that  Lord  Mortimer  repeatedly  declared  her  resi- 
dence at  St.  Catherine’s  had  made  her  more  beautiful  than  ever. 
Twelve  o’clock  struck,  and  found  them  still  loitering  over  the 
breakfast  table.  ‘ The  nuns  will  think  we  have  made  a tolerable 
feast,  ’ cried  Lord  Mortimer,  smiling,  while  Amanda  rose  with  pre- 
cipitation. ‘ I need  not,  ’ continued  he,  following  her,  ‘ like  Sterne, 
ask  nature  what  has  made  the  meal  so  delicious  ; I need  only  ask 
my  own  heart,  and  it  will  inform  me,  love  and  tenderness.’ 
Amanda  blushed,  and  they  went  together  into  the  garden.  She 
would  have  walked  before  the  windows  of  the  convent,  but  Lord 
Mortimer  forced  her  gently  into  a dark,  sequestered  alley.  Here 
their  conversation  became  more  connected  than  it  had  been  hither- 
to. The  generous  intentions  of  Lady  Martha  Dormer,  and  the 
arrangements  she  had  made  for  the  reception  and  nuptials  of  j 
Amanda,  were  talked  over.  The  marriage  was  to  take  place  at  \ 
Thornbury,  Lady  Martha’s  seat  ; they  were  to  continue  there  for  1 
a month  after  its  solemnization,  and  from  thence  to  go  to  an  estate 
of  Lord  Cherbury’s  for  the  remainder  of  the  summer  ; a house  in 
one  of  the  squares  was  to  be  taken  and  prepared  for  their  residence 
in  winter,  and  Lady  Martha  Dormer  had  promised,  whenever  she 
came  to  town,  which  was  but  seldom,  she  would  make  their  house 
her  home,  provided  they  would  promise  to  spend  every  Christmas, 
and  three  months  at  least  in  summer,  with  her  at  Thornbury. 
Lord  Mortimer  said  he  had  his  choice  of  any  of  the  earl’s  seats, 
but  chose  none,  from  an  idea  of  the  Hall  being  more  agreeable  te 


326 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEYo 


Amanda.  She  assured  him  it  was,  and  he  proceeded  to  mention 
the  presents  which  Lady  Martha  had  prepared  for  her,  also  the 
carriages  and  retinue  he  had  provided,  and  expected  to  find  at 
Thornbury  against  she  reached  it,  still  asking  if  the  arrangements 
he  had  made  met  her  approbation. 

Amanda  was  affected  even  to  tears  by  the  solicitude  he  showed 
to  please  her  ; and  he,  perceiving  her  emotions,  changed  the  dis- 
course to  talk  about  her  removal  from  St.  Catherine’s.  He  en- 
treated her  not  to  delay  it  longer  than  was  absolutely  necessary 
to  adjust  matters  for  it.  She  promised  compliance  to  this  entreaty, 
acknowledging  that  she  but  obeyed  her  inclinations  in  doing  so, 
as  she  longed  to  be  presented  to  her  generous  patroness.  Lady 
Martha,  and  to  her  amiable  and  beloved  Lady  Araminta.  Lord 
Mortimer,  delicately  considerate  about  all  which  concerned  her, 
begged  she  would  speak  to  the  prioress  to  procure  a decent  female, 
who  should  be  a proper  attendant  for  her  in  her  journey.  They 
should  travel  together  in  one  chaise,  and  he  would  follow  them 
in  another.  Amanda  promised  she  would  lose  no  time  in  making 
this  request,  which,  she  had  no  doubt,  would  be  successful. 

Lord  Mortimer  presented  her  with  a very  beautiful  embroidered 
purse,  containing  notes  to  the  amount  of  five  hundred  pounds. 

Amanda  blushed  deeply,  and  felt  her  feelings  a little  hurt  at 
the  idea  of  being  obliged  to  Lord  Mortimer  for  everything.  He 
pressed  her  hand,  and  in  a voice  of  soothing  tenderness,  told  her 
he  should  be  offended  if  she  did  not,  from  this  moment,  consider 
. her  interest  inseparable  from  his.  The  notes,  he  said,  of  right  be- 
longed to  her,  as  they  amounted  to  but  the  individual  sum  he  had 
already  devoted  to  her  use.  He  requested  she  would  not  curb  in 
the  least  her  generous  spirit,  but  fulfill,  to  the  utmost  extent,  all 
the  claims  which  gratitude  had  upon  her.  The  benevolent  sisters 
of  St.  Catherine’s  were  the  foremost  in  the  list  of  those  who  had 
conferred  obligations  upon  her,  and  he  desired  she  would  not  only 
reward  them  liberally  at  present,  but  promise  them  an  annual 
stipend  of  fifty  pounds. 

Amanda  was  truly  delighted  at  this.  To  be  able  to  contribute 
to  the  comfort  of  those  who  had  so  largely  promoted  hers  was  a 
source  of  exquisite  felicity.  Lord  Mortimer  presented  her  with 
his  picture,  which  he  had  drawn  in  London  for  that  purpose.  It 
was  a striking  likeness,  and  most  elegantly  set  with  brilliants, 
which  formed  a cipher  upon  a plait  of  hair  at  the  back.  This  was 
indeed  a precious  present  to  Amanda,  and  she  acknowledged  it 
was  such.  Lord  MorAner  said,  that  ‘ in  return  for  it  he  should 
expect  hers  at  some  future  time  ’ ; but  added,  smiling,  ‘ I shall 
not  heed  the  shadow  till  I procure  the  substance.’  He  also  gave 
her  a very  beautiful  ring,  with  an  emblematical  device,  and 
adorned  in  the  same  manner  as  his  picture,  which  Lady  Martha 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


327 


tad  sent  as  a pledge  of  future  friendship  ; and  he  now  informed 
her,  * that  her  ladyship,  accompanied  by  Lady  Araminta,  intended 
meeting  them  at  Holyhead,  that  all  due  honor  and  attention 
might  be  paid  to  her  adopted  daughter.’ 

In  the  midst  of  their  conversation  the  dinner-bell  rang  from  the 
convent.  Amanda  started,  and  declared  she  had  not  supposed  it 
half  so  late.  The  arch  smile  which  this  speech  occasioned  in  Lord 
Mortimer,  instantly  made  her  perceive  it  had  been  a tacit  confes- 
sion of  the  pleasure  she  enjoyed  in  their  tete-a-tete. 

She  blushed,  and  telling  him  she  could  not  stay  another  moment, 
was  hurrying  away.  He  hastily  caught  her,  and  holding  both  her 
hands,  declared  she  should  not  depart,  neither  would  he  to  his 
solitary  dinner,  till  she  promised  he  might  return  to  her  early  in 
the  evening.  To  this  she  consented,  provided  he  allowed  her  to 
have  the  prioress  and  Sister  Mary  at  least  at  tea.  This  was  a 
condition  Lord  Mortimer  by  no  means  liked  to  agree  to,  and  he 
endeavored  to  prevail  on  her  to  drop  it  ; but  finding  her  inflexi- 
ble, he  said  she  was  a provoking  girl,  and  asked  her  if  she  was 
not  afraid  that,  when  he  had  the  power,  he  would  retaliate  upon 
her  for  all  the  trials  she  put  his  patience  to.  But  since  she  would 
have  it  so,  why,  it  must  be  so,  to  be  sure,  he  said  ; but  he  hoped 
the  good  ladies  would  have  too  much  conscience  to  sit  out  the 
whole  evening  with  them.  That  was  all  chance,  Amanda  said. 
The  bell  again  rang,  and  he  was  forced  to  depart. 

She  took  the  opportunity  of  being  alone  with  the  prioress  for  a 
few  minutes,  to  speak  to  her  about  procuring  a female  to  attend 
her  in  her  journey.  Tiie  prioress  said  she  doubted  not  but  she 
could  procure  her  an  eligible  person  from  the  neighboring  town, 
and  promised  to  write  there  that  very  evening,  to  a family  who 
would  be  able  to  assist  her  inquiries. 

Both  she  and  Sister  Mary  were  much  pleased  by  being  invited  to 
drink  tea  with  Lord  Mortimer.  He  came  even  earlier  than  was 
expected.  Poor  Amanda  was  terrified,  lest  her  companions 
should  overhear  him  repeatedly  asking  her,  whether  they  would 
not  retire  immediately  after  tea.  Though  not  overheard,  the 
irioress  had  too  much  sagacity  not  to  know  her  departure  was  de- 
dred  ; she,  therefore,  under  pretense  of  business,  retired  and  took 
Mary  along  with  her. 

Amanda  and  Lord  Mortimer  went  into  the  garden.  He  thanked 
her  for  not  losing  time  in  speaking  to  the  prioress  about  her  ser- 
vant, and  said  that  he  hoped,  at  the  end  of  the  week  at  farthest, 
she  would  be  ready  to  begin  her  journey.  Amanda  readily  prom- 
ised to  use  all  possible  dispatch.  They  passed  some  delightful 
hours  in  rambling  about  the  garden,  and  talking  over  their  felh 
city. 

The  prioress’s  expectation  was  answered  relative  to  a servant 


328 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


In  the  course  of  two  days  she  produced  one  in  every  respect  agree 
able  to  Amanda,  and  things  were  now  in  such  forwardness  for  her 
departure,  that  she  expected  it  would  take  place  as  soon  as  Lord 
Mortimer  had  mentioned.  His  time  was  passed  almost  continu- 
ally  at  St.  Catherine’s,  never  leaving  it  except  at  dinner-time, 
when  he  went  to  Castle  Carberry.  His  residence  there  was  soon 
known,  and  visitors  and  invitations  without  number  came  to  the 
castle,  but  he  found  means  of  avoiding  them. 

Amanda,  laughing,  would  often  tell  him  he  retarded  the  prepar- 
ations  for  her  journey  by  being  always  with  her  ; this,  he  said, 
was  only  a pretext  to  drive  him  away,  for  that  he  rather  forwarded 
them  by  letting  her  lose  no  time. 

Lord  Mortimer,  on  coming  to  Amanda  one  evening  as  usual, 
appeared  uncommonly  discomposed,  his  face  was  flushed,  and  his 
whole  manner  betrayed  agitation.  He  scarcely  noticed  Amanda  ; 
but  seating  himself,  placed  his  arm  upon  a table,  and  leaned  his 
head  dejectedly  upon  it.  Amanda  was  inexpressibly  shocked — 
her  heart  panted  with  apprehension  of  ill  ; but  she  felt  too  timid 
to  make  any  inquiry.  He  suddenly  knit  his  brows,  and  muttered 
between  his  teeth,  ‘ Curse  on  the  wretch  ! ’ 

Amanda  could  no  longer  keep  silence.  ‘ What  wretch,’  she  ex- 
claimed, ‘ or  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  disorder  ? ’ ‘ First  tell 

me,  Amanda,’  said  he,  looking  very  steadfastly  at  her,  ‘ have  you 
seen  any  stranger  here  lately  ? ’ ‘ Good  Heaven  ! ’ replied  she, 

‘ what  can  you  mean  by  such  a question  ? But  I solemnly  assure 
you  I have  not.’  ‘ Enough,’  said  he,  ‘ such  an  assurance  restores 
me  to  quiei  ; but,  my  dear  Amanda,’  coming  over  to  her,  and  tak- 
ing her  hands  in  his,  ‘ since  you  have  perceived  my  agitation,  I 
must  account  to  you  for  it.  I have  just  seen  Belgrave  ; he  was 
but  a few  yards  from  me  on  the  Common  when  I saw  him  ; but 
the  mean,  despicable  wretch,  loaded  as  he  is  with  conscious  guilt, 
durst  not  face  me.  He  got  out  of  my  way  by  leaping  over  the 
hedge  which  divides  the  Common  from  a lane*with  many  intri- 
cate windings.  I endeavored,  but  without  success,  to  discover  the 
one  he  had  retreated  through.’  ‘I  see,’  said  Amanda,  pale  and 
trembling,  ‘ he  is  destined  to  make  me  wretched.  I had  hoped 
indeed  that  Lord  Mortimer  would  no  more  have  suffered  his  quiet 
to  be  interrupted  by  him  ; it  implies  such  a doubt,’  said  she,  weep- 
ing, ‘ as  shocks  my  soul  ! If  suspicion  is  thus  continually  to  be 
revived,  we  had  better  separate  at  once,  for  misery  must  be  the 
consequence  of  a union  without  mutual  confidence.’  ‘ Gracious 
Heaven  ! ’ said  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘ how  unfortunate  I am  to  give 
you  pain.  You  mistake  entirely,  indeed,  my  dearest  Amanda, 
the  cause  of  my  uneasiness.  I swear  by  all  that  is  sacred,  no 
doubt,  no  suspicion  of  your  worth,  has  arisen  in  my  mind.  No 
man  can  think  more  highly  of  a woman  than  I do  of  you  ; but  I 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


329 


was  disturbed  lest  the  wretch  should  have  forced  himself  into  your 
presence,  and  lest  you,  through  apprehension  for  me,  concealed 
it  from  me.’ 

This  explanation  calmed  the  perturbation  of  Amanda.  As  an 
atonement  for  the  uneasiness  he  had  given  her,  she  wanted  Lord 
Mortimer  to  promise  he  would  not  endeavor  to  discover  Belgrave. 
This  promise  he  avoided  giving,  and  Amanda  was  afraid  of  pres- 
iiig  it,  lest  the  spark  of  jealousy,  which  she  was  convinced  existed 
in  the  disposition  of  Lord  Mortimer,  should  be  blown  into  a flame. 
That  Belgrave  would  studiously  avoid  him  she  trusted,  and  she 
resolved  that  if  the  things  that  she  had  deemed  it  necessary  to 
order  from  the  neighboring  town  were  not  finished,  to  wait  no 
longer  for  them,  as  she  longed  now  more  than  ever  to  quit  a place 
she  thought  dangerous  to  Lord  Mortimer.  The  ensuing  morning, 
instead  of  seeing  his  lordship  at  breakfast,  a note  was  brought  to 
her  couched  in  these  words  : 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

I am  unavoidably  prevented  from  waiting  on  my  dear  Amanda  this  morning,  but  in 
the  course  of  the  day  she  may  depend  on  either  seeing  or  hearing  from  me  again.  She 
can  have  no  excuse  now  on  my  account  aboui  not  hastening  the  preparations  for  her 
journey,  and  when  we  meet,  if  I find  that  her  time  has  not  been  employed  for  this  pur- 
pose, she  may  expect  a severe  chiding  from  her  faithful 

Mortimer. 

This  note  filled  Amanda  with  the  most  alarming  disquiet.  It 
was  evident  to  her  that  he  was  gone  in  pursuit  of  Belgrave.  She 
ran  into  the  hall  to  inquire  of  the  messenger  about  his  master,  but 
he  was  gone.  She  then  hastened  to  the  prioress  and  communi- 
cated her  apprehensions  to  her. 

The  prioress  endeavored  to  calm  them,  by  assuring  her  she 
might  be  convinced  that  Belgrave  had  taken  too  many  precau- 
tions to  be  discovered. 

Amanda’s  breakfast,  however,  remained  untouched,  and  her 
things  unpacked,  and  she  continued  tne  whole  morning  the  pic- 
ture of  anxiety,  impatiently  expecting  the  promised  visit  or  letter. 
Neither  came,  and  she  resolved  to  send,  after  dinner,  the  old 
gardener  to  Castle  Carberry  to  inquire  about  Lord  Mortimer. 
While  she  was  speaking  to  him  for  that  purpose,  the  maid  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  garden,  and  told  her  there  was  a messenger  in 
the  parlor  from  Lord  Mortimer.  She  flew  thither,  but  what  words 
can  express  her  surprise  when  the  supposed  messenger,  raising  a 
large  hat,  which  shadowed  his  face,  and  removing  a handkerchief, 
which  he  had  hitherto  held  up  to  it,  discovered  to  her  view  the 
features  of  Lord  Cherbury  ? She  could  only  exclaim,  ‘ Grracious 
Heaven  ! has  anything  happened  to  Lord  Mortimer  ? ’ ere  she 
sunk  into  a chair  in  breathless  agitation. 


330 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ^BBEY, 


CHAPTER  XL. 

My  heavy  heart 

The  prophetess  of  woe,  foretells  some  ill 
At  hand. 

Lord  Cherbury  hastened  to  support  and  calm  her  agitation,  by 
assuring  her  Lord  Mortimer  was  in  perfect  safety.  Recovering  a 
little  by  this  assertion,  she  asked  him  ‘ how  he  was  assured  of  this  V 
He  answered,  ‘ because  he  had  seen  him,  though  without  being 
perceived  by  him,  about  an  hour  ago.’  Amanda,  restored  to  her 
faculties  by  being  assured  he  was  uninjured,  began  to  reflect  on 
the  suddenness  of  Lord  Cherbury’s  visit.  She  would  have  flat- 
tered herself  he  came  to  introduce  her  to  his  family  himself, 
had  not  his  looks  almost  forbid  such  an  idea.  They  were  gloomy 
and  disordered  ; his  eyes  were  fastened  on  her,  yet  he  appeared 
unwilling  to  speak. 

Amanda  felt  herself  in  too  awkward  and  embarrassing  a situa- 
tion to  break  the  unpleasant  silence.  At  last  Lord  Cherbury  sud- 
denly exclaimed.  ‘ Lord  Mortimer  does  not,  nor  must  not,  know 
of  my  being  here.  ‘ Must  not  ! ’ repeated  Amanda,  in  inconceiv- 
able astonishment. 

‘ Gracious  Heaven  ! ’ said  Lord  Cherbury,  starting  from  the 
chair  on  which  he  had  thrown  himself  opposite  her,  ‘ how  shall  I 
begin,  how  shall  I tell  her;  oh,  Miss  Fitzalan,’  he  continued,  ap- 
proaching her,  ‘ I have  much  to  say,  and  you  have  much  to  hear 
which  will  shock  you.  I believed  I could  better  in  an  interview 
have  informed  you  of  particulars,  but  I And  I was  mistaken.  I 
will  write  to  you.’  iMy  lord,’  cried  Amanda,  rising,  all  pale  and 
trembling,  ‘ tell  me  now ; to  leave  me  in  suspense,  after  receiv- 
ing such  dreadful  hints,  would  be  cruelty.  Oh  ! surely,  if  Lord 
Mortimer  be  safe — if  Lady  Martha  Dormer — if  Lady  Araminta  is 
well — I can  have  nothing  so  very  shocking  to  hear.’  ‘Alas  ! ’ 
replied  he,  mournfully  shaking  his  head,  ‘you  are  mistaken.  Be 
satisfied,  however,  that  the  friends  you  have  mentioned  are  all 
well.  I have  said  I would  write  to  you.  Can  you  meet  me  this 
evening  among  the  ruins  ? ’ Amanda  gave  an  assenting  bow.  ‘1 
shall  then,’  pursued  he,  ‘have  a letter  ready  to  deliver  you.  In 
the  meantime,  I must  inform  you  no  person  in  the  world  knows 
of  my  visit  here  but  yourself,  and  of  all  beings  Lord  Mortimer  is 
the  last  I should  wish  to  know  it. . Remember  then,  Miss  Fi.tz- 
alan,  taking  her  hand,  which  he  grasped  with  violence,  as  if  to  im- 
press his  words  upon  her  heart,  ‘ remember  that  upon  your  secrecy 
everything  most  estimable  in  life,  even  life  itself,  perhaps,  depends.^ 

With  these  dreadful  and  mysterious  words  he  departed,  leaving 
Amanda  a picture  of  horror  and  surprise.  It  was  many  minutes 
ere  she  moved  from  the  attitude  in  which  he  left  her,  and  when 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


331 


she  did,  it  was  only  to  walk  in  a disordered  manner  about  the  room 
repeating  his  dreadful  words.  He  was  come,  perhaps,  to  part  her 
and  Lord  Mortimer,  and  yet,  after  consenting  to  their  union, 
surely  Lord  Cherbury  could  not  be  guilty  of  such  treachery  and 
deceit.  Yet,  if  this  was  not  the  case,  why  conceal  his  coming  to 
Ireland  from  Lord  Mortimer  ? Why  let  it  be  known  only  to  her  ? 
And  what  could  be  the  secrets  of  dreadful  import  he  had  to  com- 
municate ? 

From  these  self -interrogations,  in  which  her  reason  was  almost 
bewildered,  the  entrance  of  the  prioress  drew  her. 

She  started  at  seeing  the  pale  and  distracted  looks  of  Amanda, 
and  asked,  ‘If  she  had  heard  any  bad  tidings  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer ? ’ 

Amanda  sighed  heavily  at  this  question,  and  said,  ‘No.’  The 
secrecy  she  had  been  enjoined  to  she  durst  not  violate,  by  men- 
tioning the  mysterious  visit  to  her  friend.  Unable,  however,  to 
converse  on  any  other  subject,  she  resolved  to  retire  to  her  cham- 
ber. She  placed  her  illness  and  agitation  to  the  account  of  Lord 
Mortimer,  and  said  a little  rest  was  absolutely  necessary  for  her, 
and  begged,  if  his  lordship  came  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  he 
might  be  told  she  was  too  ill  to  see  him. 

The  prioress  pressed  her  to  stay  for  tea.  She  refused,  and,  as 
she  retired  from  the  room,  desired  nothing  might  be  said  of  the 
person  who  had  just  seen  her  to  Lord  Mortimer,  saying,  with  a 
faint  smile,  ‘ she  would  not  make  him  vain  by  letting  him  know 
of  her  anxiety  about  him.’  She  retired  to  her  chamber,  and  en- 
deavored to  control  her  perturbations  that  she  might  be  the  better 
enabled  to  support  what  she  had  so  much  reason  to  apprehend. 
Neither  the  prioress  nor  the  nuns,  in  obedience  to  her  injunctions, 
intruded  upon  her,  and  at  the  appointed  hour  she  softly  opened 
the  chamber  door,  and,  every  place  being  clear,  stole  softly  from 
the  convent. 

She  found  Lord  Cherbury  waiting  for  her  amid  the  solitary 
ruins.  He  had  a letter  in  his  hand,  which  he  presented  to  her 
ihe  moment  she  appeared. 

‘ In  this  letter.  Miss  Fitzalan,’  said  he,  ‘ I have  opened  to  you 
my  whole  heart.  I have  disburdened  it  of  secrets  which  have 
long  oppressed  it.  I have  intrusted  my  honor  to  your  care. 
From  what  I have  said,  that  its  contents  are  of  a sacred  nature, 
you  may  believe,  should  they  be  considered  in  any  other  light  by 
you,  the  consequence  may,  nay,  must  be  fatal.’  He  said  this 
with  a sternness  that  made  Amanda  shrink.  ‘ Meditate  well  on 
the  contents  of  that  letter,  Miss  Fitzalan,’  continued  he,  with  a 
voice  of  deep  solemnity,  ‘ for  it  is  a letter  which  will  fix  your  des- 
tiny  and  mine.  Even  should  the  request  contained  in  it  be  re 
fused,  let  me  be  the  first  acquainted  with  the  refusal.  Then,  indeed, 


332 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


I shall  urge  you  no  more  to  secrecy,  for  what  will  follow,  in  con* 
sequence  of  such  a refusal,  must  divulge  all,’  ‘ Oh  ! tell  me,  tell 
me,’  said  Amanda,  catching  hold  of  his  arm,  ‘ tell  me  what  is  the 
request,  or  what  it  is  I am  to  fear.  Oh ! tell  me  all  at  once,  and 
rid  me  of  the  torturing  suspense  I endure.  ’ ‘ I cannot,  ’ he  cried, 

‘ indeed,  I cannot.  To-morrow  night  I shall  expect  your  answer 
here  at  the  same  hour.  ’ 

At  this  moment  Lord  Mortimer’s  voice,  calling  upon  Amanda, 
was  heard.  Lord  Cherbury  dropped  her  hand,  which  he  had 
taken,  and  instantly  retired  among  the  windings  of  the  pile, 
from  whence  Lord  Mortimer  soon  appeared,  giving  Amanda  only 
time  to  hide  the  fatal  letter. 

‘ Good  Heavens  ! ’ exclaimed  he,  ‘ what  could  have  brought 
you  hither,  and  who  was  the  person  who  just  depai^ted  from  you  ? ’ 
It  was  well  for  Amanda  that  the  twilight  gave  but  an  imperfect 
view  of  her  face.  She  felt  her  color  come  and  go  ; a cold  dew 
overspread  her  forehead  ; she  leaned  against  a rude  fragment  of 

the  building,  and  faintly  exclaimed,  ‘ the  person ’ ‘ Yes,’  said 

Lord  Mortimer,  ‘ I am  sure  I heard  retreating  footsteps.’  ‘ You 
are  mistaken,’  repeated  Amanda,  in  the  same  faint  accent.  ‘Well,’ 
said  he,  ‘ though  you  may  dispute  the  evidence  of  my  ears,  you 
cannot  the  evidence  of  my  eyes.  I see  you  here,  and  I am  aston- 
ished at  it.’  ‘I  came  here  for  air,’  said  Amanda.  ‘ For  air  ! ’ re- 
peated Lord  Mortimer  ; ‘ I own  I should  have  thought  the  garden 
better  adapted  for  such  a purpose  ; but  why  come  hither  in  a clan- 
destine manner  ? Why,  if  you  have  the  fears  you  would  persuade 
me  you  have,  expose  yourself  to  danger  from  the  wretch  who 
haunts  the  place,  by  coming  here  alone.  When  I went  to  the  con« 
vent  I was  told  you  were  indisposed,  and  could  not  be  disturbed* 
I could  not  depart,  however,  without  making  an  effort  to  see  you  ; 
but  you  can  easier  imagine  than  I describe  the  consternation  I felt 
when  you  could  not  be  found.  It  was  wrong,  indeed,  Amanda, 
it  was  wrong  to  come  here  alone,  and  affect  concealment.  ’ ‘ Gra- 

cious Heaven  ! ’ said  Amanda,  raising  her  hands  and  eyes,  and 
bursting  into  tears,  ‘ how  wretched  am  I ! ’ 

She  was,  indeed,  at  this  moment,  superlatively  wretched.  Her 
heart  was  oppressed  by  the  dread  of  evil,  and  she  perceived  sus- 
picions in  Lord  Mortimer  which  she  could  not  attempt  to  remove, 
lest  an  intimation  of  the  secret  she  was  so  awfully  enjoined  to  keep 
should  escape. 

‘Ah  ! Amanda,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  losing  in  a moment  the 
asperity  with  which  he  had  addressed  her  at  first,  ‘ ah  ! Amanda, 
like  the  rest  of  your  sex,  you  know  too  well  the  power  of  your  tears 
not  to  use  them.  Forget,  or  at  least  forgive,  all  I have  said.  I 
was  disappointed  in  not  seeing  you  the  moment  I expected,  and 
that  put  me  out  of  temper.  T know  I am  too  impetuous,  but  you 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


333 


will  in  time  subdue  every  unruly  passion.  I put  myself  into  your 
hands,  and  you  shall  make  me  what  you  please.’ 

He  now  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  finding  her  tremble  uni- 
versally, again  implored  her  forgiveness,  as  he  imputed  the  agi- 
tation she  betrayed  entirely  to  the  uneasiness  he  had  given  her. 
She  assured  him,  with  a faltering  voice,  he  had  not  offended  her. 
Her  spirits  were  affected,  she  said,  by  all  she  had  suffered  during 
the  day.  Lord  Mortimer  placing,  as  she  wished,  those  sufferings 
to  his  own  account,  declared  her  anxiety  at  once  pained  and 
pleased  him  ; adding,  he  would  truly  confess  what  detained  him 
from  her  during  the  day  as  soon  as  they  returned  to  the  convent. 

Their  return  to  it  relieved  the  sisterhood,  who  had  also  been 
seeking  Amanda,  from  many  apprehensions.  The  prioress  and 
Sister  Mary  followed  them  into  the  parlor,  where  Lord  Mortimer 
begged  ‘ they  would  have  compassion  on  him,  and  give  him  some- 
thing for  his  supper,  as  he  had  scarcely  eaten  anything  the  whole 
day.’  Sister  Mary  instantly  replied,  ‘ he  should  be  gratified,  as 
Amanda  was  in  the  same  predicament,  and  she  hoped  he  would 
be  now  able  to  prevail  on  her  to  eat.’  The  cloth  was  accordingly 
laid,  and  a few  trifies  placed  upon  it.  Sister  Mary  would  gladly 
have  stayed,  but  the  prioress  had  understanding  enough  to  think 
the  supper  would  be  more  palatable  if  they  were  absent,  and  ac- 
cordingly retired. 

Lord  Mortimer  now,  with  the  most  soothing  tenderness,  tried  to 
cheer  his  fair  companion,  and  make  her  take  some  refreshment  ; 
but  his  efforts  for  either  of  those  purposes  were  unsuccessful,  and 
she  besought  him  not  to  think  her  obstinate,  if  she  could  not  in 
a moment  recover  her  spirits.  To  divert  his  attention  a little  from 
herself,  she  asked  him  to  perform  his  promise,  by  relating  what 
had  kept  him  the  whole  day  from  St.  Catherine’s. 

He  now  acknowledged  ‘ he  had  been  in  search  of  Belgrave ; but 
the  precautions  he  had  taken  to  conceal  himself  baffled  all  in- 
quiries, which  convinces  me,’  continued  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘ if 
1 wanted  conviction  about  such  a matter,  that  he  has  not  yet 
dropped  his  villanous  designs  upon  you  ; but  the  wretch  cannot 
always  escape  the  vengeance  he  merits.’  ‘May  he  never,’ cried 
Amanda,  fervently  yet  involuntarily,  ‘ meet  it  from  your  hands.’ 
‘ We  will  drop  that  part  of  the  subject,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘ if 
you  please.  You  must  know,’  continued  he,  ‘ after  scouring  the 
whole  neighborhood,  I fell  in,  about  four  miles  hence,  with  a 
gentleman  who  had  visited  at  the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s  last  summer. 
He  immediately  asked  me  to  accompany  him  home  to  dinner. 
From  his  residence  in  the  country  I thought  ["it  probable  he 
might  be  able  to  give  some  account  of  Belgrave,  and  therefore 
accepted  the  invitation  ; but  my  inquiries  were  as  fruitless  here 
AS  elsewhare.  When  I found  it  so,  I was  on  thorns  to  depart 


334 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


particularly  as  all  the  gentlemen  were  set  in  for  drinking,  and  feared 
I might  be  thrown  into  an  improper  situation  to  visit  my  Amanda* 
I was  on  the  watch,  however,  and,  to  use  their  sporting  term, 
literally  stole  away.’  ‘ Thank  Heaven ! ’ said  Amanda,  ‘your  in- 
quiries proved  fruitless.  Oh  ! never,  never  repeat  them.  Think 
no  more  about  a wretch  so  despicable.’  ‘ Well,’  cried  Lord  Morti- 
mer, ‘why  don’t  you  hurry  me  from  the  neighborhood  ? Fix  the 
day,  the  moment  for  our  departure.  I have  been  here  already 
five  days.  Lady  Martha’s  patience  is,  I dare  say,  quite  exhausted 
by  this  time,  and  should  we  delay  much  longer,  I suppose,  she 
will  think  we  have  both  become  converts  to  the  holy  rites  of  this 
convent,  and  that  I,  instead  of  taking  the  vows  which  should 
make  me  a joyful  bridegroom,  am  about  taking  those  which  shall 
doom  me  to  celibacy.  Seriously,  what  but  want  of  inclination 
can  longer  detain  you  ? ’ ‘ Ah ! ’ said  Amanda,  ‘you  know  too  well 

that  my  departure  cannot  be  retarded  by  want  of  inclination.’ 
‘ Then  why  not  decide  immediately  upon  the  day  ? ’ Amanda 
was  silent  ; her  situation  was  agonizing  ; how  could  she  fix  upon 
a day,  uncertain  whether  she  did  not  possess  a letter  which  would 
prevent  her  ever  taking  the  projected  journey  ! 

‘ Well,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  after  allowing  her  some  time  to 
speak,  ‘ I see  I must  fix  the  day  myself  ; this  is  Tuesday — let  it  be 
Thursday.’  ‘Let  us  drop  the  subject  this  night,  my  Lord,’ said 
Amanda  ; ‘I  am  really  ill,  and  only  wait  for  your  departure  to 
retire  to  rest.’  Lord  Mortimer  obeyed  her,  but  with  reluctance, 
and  soon  after  retired. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

As  one  condemned  to  leap  a precipice, 

Who  sees  before  his  eyes  the  depths  below, 

Stops  short,  and  looks  about  for  some  kind  shrub 
To  break  his  dreadful  fall.— Drydbn. 

Amanda  went  to  her  chamber  the  moment  Lord  Mortimer  de- 
parted ; the  nuns  were  already  retired  to  rest,  so  that  the  stillness 
which  reigned  through  the  house  added  to  the  awfulness  of  her 
feelings,  as  she  sat  down  to  peruse  a letter  which  she  had  been 
previously  imformed  would  fix  her  fate. 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

To  destroy  a prospect  of  felicity,  at  the  very  moment  its  enveloping  glooms  are  dii^ 
persed,  is  indeed  the  source  of  pangs  most  dreadful  ; yet  such  are  the  horrors  of  my 
destiny,  that  nothing  but  intervening  between  you,  Mortimer  and  happiness,  can  save 
me  from  perdition.  Appalled  at  this  dreadful  assertion,  the  letter  drops  from  your 
trembling  hands  ! but  oh  ! dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  cast  it  not  utterly  aside  till  you  peruse 
the  rest  of  the  contents,  and  fix  the  destiny  of  the  most  wretched  of  mankind,  wretched 
in  thinking  he  shall  interrupt  not  only  your  peace,  but  the  peace  of  a son  so  noble,  so 
gracious,  so  idolized  as  Mortimer  is  by  him  ; but  I will  not  longer  torture  your  feelings 
loy  keeping  you  in  suspense  ; the  preface  I have  already  given  is  sufficient,  and  I wiU 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


335 


be  explicit  ; gambling,  that  bane  of  fame  and  fortune,  has  been  my  ruin  ; but  while  I 
indulged,  so  well  did  I conceal  my  propensity  for  it,  that  even  those  I called  my  friends 
were  ignorant  of  it.  With  shame  I confess  I was  ever  foremost  to  rail  against  this  vice, 
which  was  continually  drawing  sums  in  secret  from  me,  that  would  have  given  comfort 
and  affluencfe  to  many  a child  in  want.  For  some  time  my  good  and  bad  fortune  were 
so  equal,  that  my  in  • me  suffered  no  considerable  diminution.  About  five  years  ago  a 
Mr.  Freelove,  a particular  friend  of  mine,  died,  and  left  to  my  care  his  only  son,  whom, 
I dare  say,  you  may  recollect  having  seen  at  my  house  last  winter.  This  young  man’s 
property  was  consigned  to  my  care,  to  manage  as  much  for  his  advantage  as  I could  ; 
it  consisted  of  a large  estate  and  fifty  thousand  pounds.  At  the  period  Freelove  became 
my  ward,  I had  had  a constant  run  of  ill-luck  for  many  months.  The  ardor  of  gaming 
(unlike  every  other  passion)  is  rather  increased  than  diminished  by  disappointment. 
Without  being  warned,  therefore,  by  ill  success,  I still  went  on,  till  all  I could  touch 
of  my  own  property  was  gone.  Did  I then  retire,  ashamed  of  my  folly  ? No.  I could 
not  bear  to  do  so,  without  another  effort  to  recover  my  losses,  and  in  that  effort  risked 
something  more  precious  than  I had  ever  yet  done— namely,  my  honor,  by  using  .the 
money  which  lay  in  my  hands  belonging  to  Freelove  ; the  long  period  which  was  to 
elapse  ere  he  came  of  age,  emboldened  me  to  this.  Ere  that  period  I trusted  I should- 
have  retrieved  my  losses,  aud  be  enabled  not  only  to  discharge  the  principal,  but  what- 
ever interest  it  would  have  brought,  if  applied  to  another  purpose.  I followed  the  bent 
of  my  evil  genius,  sum  after  sum  taken  up,  and  all  alike  buried  in  the  accursed  vortex 
which  had  already  swallowed  so  much  from  me  ! But  when  I found  all  was  gone,  oh. 
Miss  Fitzalan  ! I still  tremble  at  the  distraction  of  that  moment. 

All,  as  I have  said  before,  that  I could  touch  of  my  property  was  gone;  the  remainder 
was  so  settled  I had  no  power  over  it,  except  joined  by  my  son.  Great  as  was  the  injury 
that  he  would  sustain  by  mortgaging  it,  I was  confident  he  never  would  hesitate  doing 
so  if  acquainted  with  my  distress;  but  to  let  him  know  it  was  worse  than  a death  of  tor- 
ture could  be  to  me;  his  early  excellence,  the  nobleness  of  his  principles,  mingled  in  the 
love  1 felt  for  him  a degree  of  awe;  to  confess  myself  a villain  to  such  a characier,  to 
acknowledge  my  life  had  been  a scene  of  deceit ; to  be  abashed,  confounded  in  the  pres- 
ence of  my  sou — to  meet  his  piercing  eye— to  see  the  blush  of  shame  mantle  his  cheeks 
for  his  father’s  crimes— oh,  horrible  !— most  horrible  I I raved  at  the  idea,  and  re- 
solved, if  driven  by  necessity  to  tell  him  of  my  baseness,  not  to  survive  the  confession. 
At  this  critical  juncture  the  Marquis  of  Roslin  came  from  Scotland  to  reside  in  London. 
An  intimacy  which  had  been  dormant  for  years  between  our  families  was  then  revived, 
and  I soon  found  that  an  alliance  between  them  would  be  pleasing.  The  prospect  of  it 
raised  me  from  the  very  depth  of  despair.  But  my  transports  were  of  short  continuance, 
for  Mortimer  not  only  showed  but  expressed  the  strongest  repugnance  to  such  a connec- 
tion. Time  and  daily  experience,  I trusted,  would  so  forcibly  convince  him  of  the 
advantages  of  it,  as  at  last  to  conquer  this  repugnance.  Nor  did  the  hope  of  an  alli- 
ance taking  place  entirely  forsake  my  heart,  till  informed  that  his  was  already  bestowed 
upon  another  object.  My  feelings  at  this  information  I shall  not  attempt  to  describe. 
All  hope  of  saving  myself  from  dishonor  was  now  cutoff,  for  though  dutiful  and  at- 
tentive tome  in  the  highest  degree,  I could  not  flatter  myself  that  Mortimer  w'oiild 
blindly  sacrifice  his  reason  and  inclination  to  my  will.  The  most  fatal  intentions  again 
took  possession  of  my  mind;  but  the  uncertainties  he  suffered  on  your  account  kept 
me  in  horrible  suspense  as  to  their  execution.  After  some  months  of  torture,  I began 
again  to  revive,  by  learning  that  you  and  Mortimer  were  inevitably  separated.  And 
such  is  the  selfish  nature  of  vice;  so  abandoned  is  it  to  all  feelings  of  humanity,  that  I 
rather  rejoiced  at.  than  lamented  the  supposed  disgrace  of  the  daughter  of  my  friend. 
But  the  persevering  constancy  of  Mortimer— rather  let  me  say  the  immediate  interposi- 
tion of  Providence— soon  gave  her  reason  to  triumph  over  the  arts  of  her  enemies,  and 
I was  again  reduced  to  despair.  Mortimer,  I dare  say,  from  motives  of  delicacy,  has 
concealed  from  you  the  opposition  I gave  to  his  wishes  after  your  innocence  was  cleared 
and  the  intentions  of  Lady  Martha  Dormer  relative  to  you  were  made  known.  At  last 
I found  I must  either  seem  to  acquiesce  in  these  wishes  and  intentions,  or  divulge  my 
real  motive  for  opposing  them  ; or  else  quarrel  with  my  son  and  sister,  and  appear  in 
their  eyes  the  most  selfish  of  human  beings.  I,  therefore,  to  appearance  acquiesced, 
but  resolved  in  reality  to  throw  myself  upon  your  mercy,  believing  that  a character  so 
tender,  so  perfect,  so  heroic-like  as  yours  has  been,  through  every  scene  of  distress, 
would  have  compassion  on  a fallen  fellow-creature.  Was  my  situation  otherwise  than 
it  now  is— were  you  even  portionless— I should  rejoice  at  having  you  united  to  mf 


336 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


family,  from  your  own  intrinsic  merit.  Situated  as  I now  am,  the  fortune  Lady  Mar« 
tha  Dormer  proposes  giving  you  can  be  of  no  consequence  to  me.  The  projected 
match  between  you  and  Mortimer  is  yet  a secret  from  the  public— of  course  it  has  not 
lessened  liis  interest  with  the  Roslin  family.  I have  already  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
adjust  the  unlucky  difference  which  took  place  between  them,  and  remove  any  resent- 
ment they  entertained  against  him;  and  lam  confident  the  first  overture  he  should 
make  for  a union  with  Lady  Euphrasia  would  be  successful.  The  fortune  which 
would  immediately  be  received  with  her  is  sixty  thousand  pounds,  and  five 
thousand  a-year.  The  first  would  be  given  up  to  me  in  place  of  the  settlement  I should 
make  on  Lord  Mortimer;  so  that  you  see,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  his  marriage  with 
Lady  Euphrasia  would  at  once  extricate  me  from  all  my  difficulties,  Freelove  in  a 
few  months  will  be  of  age,  and  the  smallest  delay  in  settling  with  him,  after  he  attains 
that  period,  must  brand  me  with  dishonor.  I stand  upon  the  verge  of  a dreadful  abyss, 
and  it  is  in  your  power  only  to  preserve  me  from  plunging  into  it — you  who,  like  an 
angel  of  mercy,  may  bid  me  live,  and  save  me  from  destruction.  Yet  think  not  in  re- 
signing Lord  Mortimer,  if,  indeed,  such  a resignation  should  take  place,  you  sacrifice 
your  own  interest.  No;  it  shall  be  my  grateful  care  to  secure  to  you  independence; 
and  I am  confident,  among  the  many  men  you  must  meet,  sensible  of  your  worth,  and 
enraptured  with  your  charms,  you  may  select  one  as  calculated  to  render  you  happy 
as  Mortimer  ; while  he,  disappointed  of  the  object  of  his  affections,  will,  I have  no 
doubt,  without  longer  hesitation,  accept  the  one  I shall  again  propose  to  him.  But 
should  you  determine  on  giving  him  up  you  ask  how,  and  by  what  means,  you  can 
break  with  him  after  what  has  passed,  without  revealing  your  real  motive  for  doing  so 
to  him.  That  is  indeed  a difficulty;  but  after,  going  so  far,  1 must  not  hesitate  in  tell- 
ingyon  how  it  can  be  removed.  You  must  retire  secretly  from  his  knowledge,  and  leave 
no  clew  behind  by  which  you  can  be  traced.  If  you  comply  with  the  first  of  my  re- 
quests, but  stop  short  here,  you  will  defeat  all  that  your  mercy,  your  pity,  your  com- 
passion, would  do  to  save  me,  since  the  consequence  of  any  hesitation  must  be  a full 
explanation,  and  I have  already  said  it,  and  now  repeat  it  in  the  most  solemn  manner, 
that  I will  not  survive  the  divulgement  of  my  secret— for  never,  no,  never  will  I live 
humbled  in  the  eyes  of  my  son.  If,  then,  you  comply,  comply  notin  part.  Pardon  me, 
dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  if  you  think  there  is  anything  arbitrary  in  my  style.  I would  have 
softened,  if  I could,  ail  I had  to  say,  but  the  time,  the  danger,  the  necessity,  urged  me  to 
be  explicit.  I have  now  to  you,  as  to  a superior  Being,  opened  my  whole  heart.  It 
rests  with  you  whether  I shall  live  to  atone  for  my  follies,  or  by  one  desperate  action 
terminate  them.  Should  you  show  me  mercy,  unworthy  as  I amofit— should  you,  in 
compassion  to  poor  Mortimer,  comply  with  a r»  quest  which  can  only  save  him  from  the 
pangs  he  would  feel  at  a father's  quitting  life  unbidden,  my  gratitude,  my  admiration,  my 
protection  while  I live  will  be  yours,  and  the  first  act  of  my  restored  life  will  be  to 
secure  you  a competence.  I shall  wait  with  trembling  anxiety  for  your  appearance  to- 
morrow night.  Till  then,  believe  me. 

Your  sincere,  though  most  unhappy  friend, 

Cherbury. 

The  fatal  letter  fell  from  Amanda  s hand.  A mist  overspread 
lier  eyes,  and  she  sunk  senseless  on  her  chair;  but  the  privation  of 
ier  misery  was  of  short  duration,  and  she  recovered  as  if  from  a 
dreadful  dream.  She  felt  cold,  trembling*,  and  terrified.  She 
looked  round  the  room  with  an  eye  of  apprehension  and  dismay, 
bewildered  as  to  the  cause  of  her  wretchedness  and  terror,  till 
the  letter  at  her  feet  ag*ain  struck  her  sight. 

‘ Was  there  no  way,’  she  asked  herself,  as  she  again  examined 
the  contents,  ‘ was  there  no  way  by  which  the  dreadful  sacrifice 
it  doomed  her  to  could  be  avoided  ? ’ Lady  Martha  and  Lord 
Mortimer  would  unite  their  efforts  to  save  the  honor  of  their 
wretched  relative  ; they  would  soothe  his  feelings  ; they  would 
compassionate  his  failings  ; they  would— but  she  started  in 


TH^:  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


337 


the  midst  of  these  ideas — started  as  from  ideas  fraught  with  guilt 
and  horror,  as  those  fatal  words  rushed  upon  her  mind — ‘ I will 
not  survive  the  divulgement  of  my  secret  ’ ; and  she  found  that  to 
save  the  father  she  must  resign  the  son.  How  unworthy  of  such 
a sacrifice  ! engaged  as  she  was  to  Lord  Mortimer,  she  began  to 
doubt  whether  she  had  a right  to  make  it.  What  a doubt  ! She 
shuddered  for  having  conceived  it,  and  reproached  herself  for 
yielding  a moment  to  the  suggestions  of  tenderness  which  had 
given  rise  to  it.  She  resolved  without  a farther  struggle  to  submit 
to  reason  and  to  virtue,  convinced  that,  if  accessory  to  Lord  Cher- 
bury’s  death,  nothing  could  assuage  her  wretchedness,  and  that 
the  unhappiness  Lord  Mortimer  would  suffer  at  losing  her  would 
be  trifling  compared  to  that  he  would  feel  if  he  lost  his  father  by 
an  act  of  suicide. 

‘In  my  fate,’  exclaimed  she,  in  the  low  and  broken  accent  of 
despair,  ‘ there  is  no  alternative.  I submit  to  it  without  a farther 
struggle  ; I dare  not  call  upon  one  being  to  advise  me.  I resign 
him,  therefore,’  she  continued,  as  if  Lord  Cherbury  was  really 
present  to  hear  her  resignation  ; ‘ I resign  Lord  Mortimer,  but 
oh,  my  God  ! ’ raising  her  hands  with  agony  to  Heaven,  ‘ give 
me  fortitude  to  bear  the  horrors  of  my  situation  ! O Mortimer  ! 
dear,  invaluable  Mortimer  ! the  hand  of  fate  is  against  our  union, 
and  we  must  part,  never,  never  more  to  meet  ! From  the  imputa- 
tion of  ingratitude  and  guilt  I shall  not  be  allowed  to  vindicate 
myself.  No,  I am  completely  the  victim  of  Lord  Cherbury — the 
cruel,  perfidous  Cherbury,  whose  treachery,  whose  seeming 
acquiescence  in  the  wishes  of  his  son,  has  given  me  joy  but  to 
render  my  misery  more  acute  ! ’ 

That  Lord  Mortimer  would  impute  withdrawing  herself  from 
him  to  an  attachment  for  Belgrave  she  was  convinced,  and  that 
her  fame  as  well  as  peace  should  be  sacriflced  to  Lord  Cherbury, 
caused  such  a whirl  of  contending  passions  in  her  mind,  that 
reason  and  reflection  for  a few  minutes  yielded  to  their  violence, 
and  she  resolved  to  vindicate  herself  to  Lord  Mortimer.  This 
resolution,  however,  was  of  short  continuance.  As  her  subsiding 
passions  again  gave  her  power  to  reflect,  she  was  convinced  that 
by  trying  to  clear  herself  of  an  imaginary  crime,  she  should  com- 
mit a real  one — since  to  save  her  own  character  Lord  Cherbury ’s 
must  be  stigmatized  ; and  the  consequence  of  such  an  act  he  had 
already  declared — so  that  not  only  by  the  world,  but  by  her  own 
conscience,  she  should  forever  be  accused  of  accelerating  his 
death. 

‘ It  must,  it  must  be  made  ! ’ she  wildly  cried  ; ‘ the  sacriflce 
must  be  made,  and  Mortimer  is  lost  to  me  forever.’  She  flung 
herself  on  the  bed,  and  passed  the  hours  till  morning  in  agonies 
too  great  for  description.  From  a kind  of  stupefaction  rather  than 


338 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


sleep,  into  which  she  had  gradually  sunk  toward  morning,  she 
was  roused  by  a gentle  tap  at  her  chamber  door,  and  the  voice  of 
Sister  Mary  informing  her  that  Lord  Mortimer  was  below,  and 
impatient  for  his  breakfast. 

Amanda  started  from  the  bed,  and  bid  her  tell  his  lordship  she 
would  attend  him  immediately.  She  then  adjusted  her  dress, 
tried  to  calm  her  spirits,  and,  with  uplifted  hands  and  eyes, 
besought  Heaven  to  support  her  through  the  trials  of  the 
day. 

Weak  and  trembling  she  descended  to  the  parlor.  The  moment 
she  entered  it.  Lord  Mortimer,  shocked  and  surprised  by  her 
altered  looks,  exclaimed,  ‘ G-racious  Heaven  ! what  is  the  mat- 
ter ? ’ Then  feeling  the  feverish  heat  of  her  hands,  continued, 

^ Why,  why,  Amanda,  had  you  the  cruelty  to  conceal  your  ill- 
ness ? Proper  assistance  might  have  prevented  its  increasing  to 
such  a degree.’  With  unutterable  tenderness  he  folded  his  arms 
about  her,  and,  while  her  drooping  head  sunk  on  his  bosom,  de- 
clared he  would  immediately  send  for  the  physician  who  had 
before  attended  her. 

‘ Do  not,  ’ said  Amanda,  while  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks, 

‘ do  not,  ’ continued  she,  in  a broken  voice,  ‘ for  he  could  do  me 
no  good.  ’ ‘ No  good  ! ’ repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  in  a terrified 

accent.  ‘I  mean,’ cried  she,  ‘he  would  find  it  unnecessary  to 
prescribe  anything  for  me,  as  my  illness  only  proceeds  from  the 
agitation  I suffered  yesterday.  It  made  me  pass  an  indifferent 
night,  but  quietness  to-day  will  recover  me.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  with  difficulty  persuaded  to  give  up  his  in- 
tention ; nor  would  he  relinquish  it  till  she  had  promised,  if  not 
better  before  the  evening,  to  inform  him,  and  let  the  physician  be 
sent  for. 

They  now  sat  down  to  breakfast,  at  which  Amanda  was  unable 
either  to  preside  or  eat.  When  over,  she  told  Lord  Mortimer  she 
must  retire  to  her  chamber,  as  rest  was  essential  for  her  ; but  be- 
tween nine  and  ten  in  the  evening  she  would  be  happy  to  see  him. 
He  tried  to  persuade  her  that  she  might  rest  as  well  upon  the  sofa 
in  the  parlor  as  in  her  chamber,  and  that  he  might  then  be  allowed 
to  sit  with  her  ; but  she  could  not  be  persuaded  to  this,  she  said, 
and  begged  he  would  excuse  seeing  her  till  the  time  she  had  already 
mentioned. 

He  at  last  retired  with  great  reluctance,  but  not  till  she  had  sev- 
eral times  desired  him  to  do  so. 

Amanda  now  repaired  to  her  chamber,  but  not  to  indulge  in  the 
supineness  of  grief,  though  her  heart  felt  bursting,  but  to  settle  upon 
some  plan  for  her  future  conduct.  In  the  first  place,  she  imme- 
diately meant  to  write  to  Lord  Cherbury,  as  the  best  method  she 
could  take  of  acquainting  him  with  her  compliance,  and  prevent 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


339 


any  conversation  between  them,  which  would  now  have  been 
insupportable  to  her. 

In  the  next  place,  she  designed  acquainting  the  prioress  with 
the  sudden  alteration  in  her  atfairs,  only  concealing  the  occasion 
of  that  alteration,  and,  as  but  one  day  intervened  between  the 
present  and  the  one  fixed  for  her  journey,  meant  to  beseech  her  to 
think  of  some  place  to  which  she  might  retire  from  Lord  Mortimer. 

Yet  such  was  the  opinion  she  knew  the  prioress  entertained  of 
Lord  Mortimer,  that  she  almost  dreaded  she  would  impute  her 
resignation  of  him  to  some  criminal  motive,  and  abandon  her  en- 
tirely. If  this  should  be  the  case  (and  scarcely  could  she  be  sur- 
prised if  it  was),  she  resolved  without  delay  to  go  privately  to  the 
neighboring  town,  and  from  thence  proceed  immediately  to  Dub- 
lin. How  she  should  act  there,  or  what  would  become  of  her, 
never  entered  her  thoughts  ; they  were  wholly  engrossed  about 
the  manner  in  which  she  should  leave  St.  Catherine’s. 

But  she  hoped,  much  as  appearances  were  against  her,  she  should 
not  be  deserted  by  the  prioress.  Providence,  she  trusted,  would 
be  so  compassionate  to  her  misery,  as  to  preserve  her  this  one 
friend,  who  could  not  only  assist  but  advise  her. 

As  soon  as  she  had  settled  the  line  of  conduct  she  should  pur- 
sue, she  sat  down  to  pen  her  renunciation  of  Lord  Mortimer, 
which  she  did  in  the  following  words  : 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  CHERBURY. 

My  Lord  : To  your  wishes  I resign  my  happiness  ; my  happiness,  I repeat,  for  it  is 
due  to  Lord  Mortimer  to  declare  that  a union  with  such  a character  as  his  must  have 
produced  the  highest  felicity.  It  is  also  due  to  my  own  to  declare,  that  it  was  neither 
his  rank  nor  his  fortune,  but  his  virtues,  which  influenced  my  inclination  in  his  favor. 

Happy  had  it  been  for  us  all,  my  lord,  but  particularly  for  me,  had  you  continued 
steady  in  opposing  the  wishes  of  your  son.  My  reverence  for  paternal  authority  is  too 
great  ever  to  have  allowed  me  to  act  in  opposition  to  it.  I should  not  then,  by  your 
seeming  acquiescence  to  them,  have  been  tempted  to  think  my  trials  all  over. 

But  I will  not  do  away  any  little  merit  your  lordship  may  perhaps  ascribe  to  my  imme- 
diate compliance  with  your  request,  by  dwelling  upon  the  sufferings  it  entails  on  me. 
May  the  renuL elation  of  my  hopes  be  the  means  of  realizing  your  lordship's,  and  may 
superior  fortune  bring  superior  happiness  to  Lord  Mortimer  I 

I thank  your  lordship  for  your  intentions  relative  to  me  ; but  while  I do  so,  must  as- 
sure you,  both  now  and  forever,  I shall  decline  having  them  executed  for  me. 

I shall  not  disguise  the  truth.  It  would  not  be  in  your  lordship’s  power  to  recom- 
pense the  sacrifice  I have  made  you  ; and,  besides,  pecuniary  obligations  can  never  sit 
easy  upon  a feeling  mind,  except  they  are  conferred  by  those  we  know  value  us,  and 
whom  we  value  ourselves.  I have  the  honor  to  be,  your  lordship’s  obedient  servant, 

Amanda  Fitzalan. 

The  tears  she  had  with  difficulty  restrained  while  writing,  now 
burst  forth.  She  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  to  try  if  the  air 
would  remove  the  faintness  which  oppressed  her.  From  it  she 
perceived  Lord  Mortimer  and  the  prioress  in  deep  conversation, 
at  a little  distance  from  the  convent.  She  conjectured  she  was 
their  subject  ; for,  as  Lord  Mortimer  retired,  the  prioress,  whom 


340 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


she  had  not  seen  that  day  before,  came  into  her  chamber.  After 
the  usual  salutations — ‘ Lord  Mortimer  has  been  telling  me  you 
were  ill,’  said  she.  ‘I  trusted  a lover’s  fears  had  magnified  the 
danger  ; but  truly,  my  dear  child,  I am  sorry  to  say  that  this  is  not 
the  case.  Tell  me,  my  dear,  what  is  the  matter  ? Surely  now, 
more  than  ever,  you  should  be  careful  of  your  health.’  ‘ Oh,  no  ! ’ 
said  Amanda,  with  a convulsive  sob.  ‘ Oh,  no/  wringing  her 
hands,  ‘ you  are  sadly  mistaken.  ’ The  prioress  grew  alarmed,  her 
limbs  began  to  tremble,  she  was  unable  to  stand,  and,  dropping  on 
the  nearest  chair,  besought  Amanda,  in  a voice  expressive  of  her 
feelings,  ‘ to  explain  the  reason  of  her  distress.’ 

Amanda  knelt  before  her,  she  took  her  hands,  she  pressed  them 
to  her  burning  forehead  and  lips,  and  bedewed  them  with  her  tears 
while  she  exclaimed,  ‘she  was  wretched.’  ‘Wretched!’  re- 
peated the  prioress.  ‘ For  Heaven’s  sake  be  explicit — keep  me  no 
longer  in  suspense — you  sicken  my  very  heart  by  your  agitation 
— it  foretells  something  dreadful  1 ’ 

‘ It  does  indeed,  ’ said  Amanda.  ‘ It  foretells  that  Lord  Morti- 
mer and  I shall  never  be  united  ! ’ 

The  prioress  started,  and  surveyed  Amanda  with  a look  which 
seemed  to  say,  ‘ she  believed  she  had  lost  her  senses ; ’ then  with 
assumed  composure,  begged  ‘ she  would  defer  any  farther  expla- 
nation of  her  distress  till  her  spirits  were  in  a calmer  state.  ’ ‘I  will 
not  rise,’  cried  Amanda,  taking  the  prioress’s  hand,  which,  in 
her  surprise,  she  had  involuntarily  withdrawn.  ‘ I will  not  rise 
till  you  say  that,  notwithstanding  the  mysterious  situation  in 
which  I am  involved,  you  will  continue  to  be  my  friend.  Oh! 
such  an  assurance  would  assuage  the  sorrows  of  my  heart.’ 

The  prioress  now  perceived  that  it  was  grief  alone  which  disor- 
dered Amanda  ; but  how  she  had  met  with  any  cause  for  grief,  or 
what  could  occasion  it,  were  matters  of  astonishment  to  her. 
‘Surely  my  dear  child,’  cried  she,  ‘should  know  me  too  well  to 
desire  such  an  assurance ; but,  however  mysterious  her  situation 
\ may  appear  to  others,  she  will  not,  I trust  and  believe,  let  it  appear 
so  to  me.  I wait  with  impatience  for  an  explanation.  ’ ‘ It  is  one  of 
my  greatest  sorrows,’  exclaimed  Amanda,  ‘ that  I cannot  give  such 
an  explanation.  No,  no,’  she  continued  in  agony,  ‘a  death-bed 
confession  would  not  authorize  my  telling  you  the  occasion  of 
Lord  Mortimer’s  separation  and  mine.  ’ The  prioress  now  insisted 
on  her  taking  a chair,  and  then  begged,  as  far  as  she  could,  with- 
out farther  delay,  she  would  let  her  into  her  situation. 

Amanda  immediately  complied.  ‘ An  unexpected  obstacle  to 
her  union  with  Lord  Mortimer,’  she  said,  ‘ had  arisen,  an  obstacle 
which,  while  compelled  to  submit  to  it,  she  was  bound  most 
solemnly  to  conceal.  It  was  expedient,  therefore,  she  should  re* 
tire  from  Lord  Mortimer,  without  giving  him  the  smallest  inth 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


341 


mation  of  such  an  intention,  lest,  if  he  suspected  it,  he  should  in< 
quire  too  minutely,  and  by  so  doing,  plunge  not  only  her  but 
himself  into  irremediable  distress.  To  avoid  this  it  was  neces- 
sary all  but  the  prioress  should  be  ignorant  of  her  scheme ; and 
by  her  means  she  hoped  she  should  be  put  in  away  of  finding  such 
a place  of  secrecy  and  security  as  she  should  require.  She  be- 
sought the  prioress,  with  streaming  eyes,  not  to  impute  her  resig- 
nation of  Lord  Mortimer  to  any  unworthy  motive ; to  that  Heaven, 
which  could  alone  console  her  for  his  loss,  she  appealed  for  her  in- 
nocence. She  besought  her  to  believe  her  sincere ; to  pity,  but 
not  condemn  her;  to  continue  her  friend  now,  when  her  friend- 
ship was  most  needful  in  this  her  deep  distress,  and  she  assured 
her,  if  it  was  withdrawn,  she  believed  she  could  no  longer 
struggle  with  her  sorrows. 

The  prioress  remained  silent  for  a few  minutes,  and  then  ad- 
dressed her  in  a solemn  voice.  ‘ I own.  Miss  Fitzalan,  your  con- 
duct appears  so  inexplicable,  so  astonishing,  that  nothing  but  the 
opinion  I have  formed  of  your  character,  from  seeing  the  manner 
in  which  you  have  acted  since  left  to  yourself,  could  prevent  my 
esteem  from  being  diminished ; but  I am  persuaded  you  cannot 
act  from  a bad  motive,  therefore,  till  that  persuasion  ceases,  my 
esteem  can  know  no  diminution.  From  this  declaration  you 
may  be  convinced  that,  to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  I will 
serve  you ; yet,  ere  you  finally  determine  and  require  such  service, 
weigh  well  what  you  are  about : consider  in  the  eyes  of  the  world 
you  are  about  acting  a dishonorable  part,  in  breaking  your  engage- 
ment with  Lord  Mortimer  without  assigning  some  reason  for  do- 
ing so.  Nothing  short  of  a^  point  of  conscience  should  influence 
you  to  this.’  ‘ Nothing  short  of  it  has,’  replied  Amanda;  ‘there- 
fore pity,  and  do  not  aggravate  my  feelings,  by  pointing  out  the 
consequences  which  will  attend  the  sacrifice  I am  compelled  to 
make ; only  promise  [taking  the  prioress’s  hand] — only  promise, 
in  this  great  and  sad  emergency,  to  be  my  friend.’ 

Her  looks,  her  words,  her  agonies,  stopped  short  all  the  prioress 
was  going  to  say.  She  thought  it  would  be  barbarity  any  longer 
to  dwell  upon  the  ill  consequences  of  an  action,  which  she  was 
now  convinced  some  fatal  necessity  compelled  her  to ; she  there- 
fore gave  her  all  the  consolation  now  in  her  power,  by  assuring 
her  she  would  immediately  think  about  some  place  for  her  to  re- 
tire to,  and  would  keep  all  that  had  passed  between  them  a profound 
secret.  She  then  insisted  on  Amanda’s  lying  down,  and  trying 
to  compose  herself ; she  brought  her  drops  to  take,  and  drawing 
the  curtains  about  her,  retired  from  the  room.  In  two  hours  she 
returned.  Though  she  entered  the  chamber  softly,  Amanda  im- 
mediately drew  back  the  curtain,  and  appeared  much  more  com- 
posed than  when  the  prioress  had  left  her.  The  good  woman 


342 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


would  not  let  her  rise,  but  sat  down  on  the  bed  to  tell  her  what 
she  had  contrived  for  her. 

‘ She  had  a relation  in  Scotland,’  she  said,  ‘ who,  from  reduced 
circumstances,  had  kept  a school  for  many  years.  But  as  the  in- 
firmities of  age  came  on,  she  was  not  able  to  pay  so  much  attention 
to  her  pupils  as  their  friends  thought  requisite,  and  she  had  only 
been  able  to  retain  them  by  promising  to  get  a person  to  assist  her. 
As  she  thought  her  cousin  (the  prioress)  more  in  the  way  of 
procuring  such  a one  than  herself,  she  had  written  to  her  for  that 
purpose.  A clever,  well  behaved  young  woman,  who  would  be 
satisfied  with  a small  salary,  was  what  she  wanted.  I should  not 
mention  such  a place  to  you,’  said  the  prioress,  ‘ but  that  the  ne- 
cessity there  is  for  your  immediately  retiring  from  Lord  Mortimer 
leaves  me  no  time  to  look  out  for  another.  But  do  not  imagine 
I wish  you  to  continue  there.  No,  indeed  ; I should  think  it  a pity 
such  talents  as  you  possess  should  be  buried  in  such  obscurity. 
What  I think  is,  that  you  can  stay  there  till  you  grow  more 
composed,  and  can  look  out  for  a better  establishment.’  ‘ Do  not 
mention  my  talents,’  said  Amanda  : ‘ my  mind  is  so  enervated  by 
grief,  that  it  will  be  long  before  I can  make  any  great  exertion, 
and  the  place  you  have  mentioned  is,  from  its  obscurity,  just  such 
a one  as  I desire  to  go  to .’  ‘ There  is,  besides,  another  inducement,  ’ 
said  the  prioress,  ‘ namely,  its  being  but  a few  miles  from  Port 
Patrick,  to  which  place  a fair  wind  will  bring  you  in  a few  hours 
from  this.  I know  the  master  of  a little  wherry,  which  is  per- 
petually going  backward  and  forward.  He  lives  in  this  neigh- 
borhood, and  both  he  and  his  wife  consider  themselves  under 
obligations  to  me,  and  will  rejoice,  I am  sure,  at  an  opportunity 
of  obliging  me.  I shall  therefore  send  for  him  this  evening,  in- 
forming him  of  the  time  you  wish  to  go,  and  desire  his  care  till  he 
leaves  you  himself  at  Mrs.Macpherson’s.' 

Amanda  thanked  the  prioress,  who  proceeded  to  say,  ‘ that  on 
the  presumption  of  her  going  to  her  cousin’s,  she  had  already 
written  a letter  for  her  to  take  ; but  wished  to  know  whether  she 
would  be  mentioned  by  her  own  or  a fictitious  name.’ 

Amanda  replied,  ‘By  a fictitious  one,’ and  after  a little  con- 
sideration, fixed  on  that  of  Frances  Donald,  which  the  prioress 
accordingly  inserted,  and  then  read  the  letter  : 

TO  MRS.  MACPHERSON. 

Dear  Cousin  : The  bearer  of  this  letter,  Frances  Donald,  is  the  young  person  I 
have  procured  you  for  an  assistant  in  your  school.  I have  known  her  some  time,  and 
can  vouch  for  her  cleverness  and  discretion.  She  is  well  born,  and  well  educated,  and 
has  seen  better  days  ; but  the  wheel  of  fortune  is  continually  turning,  and  she  bears 
her  misfortunes  with  a patience  that  to  me  is  the  best  proof  she  could  give’of  a real  good 
disposition.  I have  told  her  you  give  but  ten  pounds  a year.  Her  going  proves  she  is 
not  dissatisfied  with  the  salary.  I am  sorry  to  hear  you  are  troubled  with  rheumatic 
pains,  and  hope,  when  you  have  more  time  to  take  care  of  yourself,  you  will  grow  better. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


343 


And  all  the  sis^e^a  |oin  me  in  thanking  you  for  your  kind  inquiries  after  them.  We 
do  tolerably  *^rell  in  the  little  school  we  keep,  and  trust  our  gratitude  to  Heaven  for  its 
present  .goodness  will  obtain  a continuance  of  it.  I beg  to  hear  from  you  soon ; and 
am,  my  *d«>ar  cousin,  your  sincere  friend  an'^v  affectionate  kinswoman, 

St.  Catherine *s.  Elizabeth  Dekmot. 


‘ I have  not  said  as  much  as  you  deserve,’  said  the  prioress ; ‘ but 
if  the  letter  does  not  meet  your  approbation,  I will  make  any 
alteration  you  please  in  it.’  Amanda  assured  her  it  did,  and  the 
orioress  then  said,  ‘ that  Lord  Mortimer  had  been  again  at  the 
convent  to  inquire  after  her,  and  was  told  she  was  better. 

Amanda  said,  ‘she  would  not  see  him  till  the  hour  she  had 
appointed  for  his  coming  to  supper.’  The  prioress  agreed,  that  as 
things  were  changed,  she  was  right  in  being  in  his  company  as 
little  as  possible,  and  to  prevent  her  being  in  his  way,  she  should 
have  her  dinner  and  tea  in  her  own  room.  The  cloth  was  accord- 
ingly laid  in  it,  nor  would  the  good-natured  prioress  depart  till  she 
saw  Amanda  eat  something.  Sister  Mary,  she  said,  was  quite 
anxious  to  come  in,  and  perform  the  part  of  an  attendant,  but 
was  prevented  by  her. 

The  distraction  of  Amanda’s  thoughts  was  now  abated,  from 
having  everything  adjusted  relative  to  her  future  conduct,  and 
the  company  of  the  prioress,  who  returned  to  her  as  soon  as  she 
had  dined, prevented -her  losing  the  little  composure  she  had  with 
such  difficulty  acquired. 

She  besought  the  prioress  not  to  delay  writing  after  her  de- 
parture, and  to  relate  faithfully  everything  which  happened  in 
consequence  of  her  flight.  She  entreated  her  not  to  let  a mistaken 
compassion  for  her  feelings  influence  her  to  conceal  anything,  as 
anything  like  the  appearance  of  concealment  in  her  letter  would 
only  torture  her  with  anxiety  and  suspense. 

The  prioress  solemnly  promised  she  would  obey  her  request, 
and  Amanda,  with  tears,  regretted  that  slie  was  now  unable  to 
recompense  the  kindness  of  the  prioress  and  the  sisterhood,  as  she 
had  lately  intended  doing  by  Lord  Mortimer’s  desire,  as  well  as 
her  own  inclination.  The  prioress  begged  her  not  to  indulge  any 
regret  on  that  account,  as  they  considered  themselves  already 
liberally  recompensed,  and  had,  besides,  quite  sufficient  to  satisfy 
their  humble  desires. 

Amanda  said  she  meant  to  leave  a letter  on  the  dressing  table 
for  Lord  Mortimer,  with  the  notes  which  he  had  given  her  inclosed 
in  it.  ‘ The  pictures  and  the  ring,’  said  she,  with  a falling  tear, 
‘ I cannot  part  with  ’;  for  the  things  which  she  had  ordered  from 
the  neighboring  town,  she  told  the  prioress  she  would  leave  money 
in  her  hands,  also  a present  for  the  woman  who  had  been  engaged 
to  attend  her  to  England,  as  some  small  recompense  for  her  dis- 
appointment. She  meant  only  to  take  some  linen  and  her  mourn 


344 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


mg  to  Scotland  ; the  rest  of  her  things,  including  her  music  and 
books,  at  some  future  and  better  period  might  be  sent  after  her, 

Amanda  was  in  debt  to  the  sisterhood  for  three  months’  board 
and  lodging,  which  was  ten  guineas.  Of  the  two  hundred  pounds 
which  Lord  Mortimer  had  given  her  on  leaving  Castle  Carberry, 
one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  remained,  so  that  though  unable 
to  answer  the  claims  of  gratitude,  she  thanked  Heaven  she  was 
able  to  fulfill  those  of  justice.  This  she  told  the  prioress,  who  in- 
stantly declared,  ‘ that,  in  the  name  of  the  whole  sisterhood,  she 
would  take  upon  her  to  refuse  anything  from  her.’  Amanda  did 
not  contest  the  point,  being  secretly  determined  how  to  act. 
The  prioress  drank  tea  with  her.  When  over,  Amanda  said  she 
would  lie  down,  in  order  to  try  and  be  composed  against  Lord 
Mortimer  came.  The  prioress  accordingly  withdrew,  saying, 
‘ she  should  not  be  disturbed  till  then.  ’ 

By  this  means  Amanda  was  enabled  to  be  in  readiness  for  de- 
livering her  letter  to  Lord  Cherbury  at  the  proper  hour.  Her 
heart  beat  with  apprehension  as  it  approached.  She  dreaded  Lord 
Mortimer  again  surprising  her  among  the  ruins,  or  some  of  the 
nuns  following  her  to  them.  At  last  the  clock  gave  the  signal  for 
keeping  her  appointment.  She  arose,  trembling,  from  the  bed, 
and  opened  the  door.  She  listened,  and  no  noise  announced 
anyone’s  being  near.  The  moments  were  precious.  She  glided 
through  the  gallery,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  the  hall- 
door  open.  She  hastened  to  the  ruins,  and  found  Lord  Cherbury 
already  waiting  there.  She  presented  him  the  letter  in  silence. 
He  received  it  in  the  same  manner  ; but  when  he  saw  her  turn- 
ing away  to  depart,  he  snatched  her  hand,  and,  in  a voice  that 
denoted  the  most  violent  agitation,  exclaimed  ; ‘ Tell  me,  tell  me. 
Miss  Fitzalan,  is  this  letter  propitious  V ‘ It  is,’  replied  she,  in  a 
faltering  voice.  ‘ Then  may  Heaven  eternally  bless  you,’  cried 
he,  falling  at  her  feet,  and  wrapping  his  arms  about  her.  His 
posture  shocked  Amanda,  and  his  detention  terrified  her. 

‘Let  me  go,  my  lord,’  said  she.  ‘In  pity  to  me,  in  mercy  to 
yourself,  let  me  go  ; for  one  moment  longer  and  we  may  be  dis- 
covered. ’ 

Lord  Cherbury  started  up— ‘ From  whom,’  cried  he,  ‘ can  I hear 
about  you  ? ’ ‘ From  the  prioress  of  St.  Catherine’s,’  replied 

Amanda,  in  a trembling  voice  ; ‘ she  only  will  know  the  secret 
of  my  retreat.’ 

He  again  snatched  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with  vehemence. 

‘ Farewell,  thou  angel  of  a woman  ! ’ he  exclaimed,  and  dis- 
appeared among  the  ruins.  Amanda  hurried  back,  dreading 
every  moment  to  meet  Lord  Mortimer  ; but  she  neither  met  him 
nor  any  other  person.  She  had  scarcely  gained  her  chamber  ere 
the  prioress  came  to  inform  her  his  lordship  was  in  the  parlor. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


345 


She  instantly  repaired  to  it.  The  air  had  a little  changed  the 
deadly  hue  of  her  complexion,  so  that  from  her  looks  he  supposed 
her  better,  and  her  words  strengthened  the  supposition.  She 
talked  with  him,  forced  herself  to  eat  some  supper,  and  checked 
the  tears  from  falling,  which  sprang  to  her  eyes,  whenever  he 
mentioned  the  happiness  they  must  experience  when  united,  the 
pleasure  they  should  enjoy  at  Thornbury,  and  the  delight  Lady 
Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  would  experience  whenever  they  met. 

Amanda  desired  him  not  to  come  to  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
nor  to  the  convent  till  after  dinner,  as  she  should  be  so  busy  pre- 
paring for  her  journey  she  would  have  no  time  to  devote  to  him. 
He  wanted  to  convince  her  he  should  not  retard  her  preparations 
by  coming,  but  she  would  not  allow  this. 

Amanda  passed  another  wretched  night.  She  breakfasted  in  the 
morning  with  the  nuns,  who  expressed  their  regret  at  losing  her — 
s.  regret,  however,  mitigated  by  the  hope  of  shortly  seeing  her 
again,  as  Lord  Mortimer  had  promised  to  bring  her  to  Castle  Car- 
berry  as  soon  as  she  had  visited  his  friends  in  England.  This  was 
a trying  moment  for  Amanda.  She  could  scarcely  conceal  her 
emotions,  or  keep  herself  from  weeping  aloud,  at  the  mention  of  a 
promise  never  to  be  fulfilled.  She  swallowed  her  breakfast  in 
haste,  and  withdrew  to  her  chamber  on  pretense  of  settling  her 
things.  Here  she  was  immediately  followed  by  the  nuns,  en- 
treating they  might  severally  be  employed  in  assisting  her.  She 
thanked  them  with  her  usual  sweetness,  but  assured  them  no 
assistance  was  necessary,  as  she  had  but  few  things  to  pack,  never 
having  unlocked  the  chests  which  had  come  from  Castle  Carberry. 
They  retired  on  receiving  this  assurance,  and  Amanda,  fearful  of 
another  interruption,  instantly  sat  down  to  write  her  farewell 
letter  to  Lord  Mortimer. 

TO  LORD  MORTIMER. 

My  Lord:  A destiny,  which  neither  of  us  can  control,  forbids  our  union.  In  vain 
were  obstacles  encountered  and  apparently  overcome ; one  has  arisen  to  oppose  it 
which  we  never  could  have  thought  of,  and,  yielding  to  it,  as  I am  compelled  by  dire 
necessity  to  do,  I find  myself  separated  from  you,  without  the  remotest  hope  of  our 
ever  meeting  again — without  being  allowed  to  justify  my  conduct,  or  offer  one  excuse 
which  might,  in  some  degree,  palliate  the  abominable  ingratitude  and  deceit  I may  ap- 
pear guilty  of  ; appear,  I say,  for  in  reality  my  heart  is  a stranger  to  either,  and  is  now 
agonized  at  the  sncrifice  it  is  compelled  to  make  ; but  1 will  not  hurt  your  lordship’s 
feelings  by  dwelling  on  my  own  sufferings.  Already  have  1 caused  you  too  much  pain, 
but  never  again  shall  I cross  your  path  to  disturb  your  peace,  and  shade  your  prospect 
of  felicity  ; no,  my  lord,  removed  to  a tedious  distance,  the  name  I love  no  more  will 
sink  upon  my  ear,  the  delusive  form  of  happiness  no  more  will  mock  me. 

Had  everything  turned  out  according  to  my  wishes,  perhaps  happiness,  so  great,  so 
unexpected,  might  have  produced  a dangerous  revolution  in  my  sentiments,  and  with- 
drawn my  thoughts  too  much  from  Heaven  to  earth  ; if  so,  oh  1 blessed  be  the  power 
that  snatched  from  my  lips  the  cup  of  joy,  though  at  the  very  moment  I was  tasting 
the  delightful  beverage. 

I cannot  bid  you  pity  me,  though  I know  myself  deserving  of  compission  ; I cannot 
bid  you  forbear  condemning  me,  though  I know  myself  undeserving  of  censure.  In  thi* 


346 


THE  CEILJJEEN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


Jetter  I inclose  the  notes  I received  from  your  lordship  ; the  picture  and  the  ring  I have 
retained ; they  will  soon  be  my  only  vestiges  of  former  happines-:.  Farewell,  Lord 
Mortimer,  dear  and  invaluable  friend,  farewell  forever.  May  iliat  peace,  that  happiness 
you  so  truly  deserve  to  possess,  be  yours,  and  may  they  never  again  meet  with  such 
interruptions  as  they  have  received  from  the  unfortunate 

Amanda  M.  Fitzalan. 

This  letter  was  blistered  with  her  tears  ; she  laid  it  in  a drawer 
till  evening*,  and  then  proceeded  to  pack  whatever  she  meant  to 
take  with  her  in  a little  trunk.  In  the  midst  of  this  business  the 
prioress  came  in  to  inform  her  she  had  seen  the  master  of  the 
wherry,  and  settled  everything  with  him.  He  not  only  promised 
to  be  secret,  but  to  sail  the  following  morning  at  four  o’clock,  ana 
conduct  her  himself  to  Mrs.  Macpherson’s.  About  three  he  was 
to  come  to  the  convent  for  her  ; he  had  also  promised  to  provide 
everything  necessary  on  board  for  her. 

Matters  being  thus  arranged,  Amanda  told  the  prioress,  to  avoid 
suspicion,  she  would  leave  the  money  she  intended  for  the  woman 
who  had  been  engaged  to  accompany  her  to  England  on  her  dress- 
ing table,  with  a few  lines  purporting  who  it  was  for.  The  prioress 
approved  of  her  doing  so,  as  it  would  prevent  anyone  from  suspect- 
ing she  was  privy  to  her  departure.  She  was  obliged  to  leave  her  di- 
rectly, and  Amanda  took  the  opportunity  of  putting  up  fifteen 
guineas  in  a paper — five  for  the  woman,  and  ten  for  the  nuns. 
She  wished  to  do  more  for  them,  but  feared  to  obey  the  dictates  of 
generosity,  while  her  own  prospect  of  provision  was  so  uncertain. 
She  wrote  as  follows  to  the  prioress  : 

TO  MRS.  DERMOT. 

Dear  Madam  : Was  my  situation  otherwise  than  it  now  is,  be  assured  I never  should 
have  offered  the  trifle  you  will  find  in  this  paper  as  in  any  way  adequate  to  the  discharge 
of  my  debt  ; to  you  and  your  amiable  companions,  I regret  my  inability  (more  than  I can 
express)  of  proving  my  gratitude  to  you  and  them  for  all  your  kindness— never  will  they 
be  obliterated  from  my  remembrance  ; and  He  who  has  promised  to  regard  those  that 
befriend  the  orphan,  will  reward  you  for  them.  I have  also  left  five  guineas  for  the 
woman  you  were  so  good  as  to  engage  to  attend  me  to  England.  I trust  she  will  think 
them  a sufficient  recompense  for  any  trouble  or  disappointment  I may  have  occasioned 
her. 

Farewell,  dear  Mrs.  Dermot,  dear  and  amiable  inhabitants  of  St.  Catherine’s  farewell 
As  Amanda  wdll  never  forget  you  in  hers,  so  let  her  never  be  forgotten  in  your  orisons, 
and  never  cease  to  believe  her, 

Grateful,  sincere,  and  affectionate, 

A.  M.  Fitzalan. 

By  this  time  she  was  summoned  to  dinner.  Her  spirits  were 
sunk  in  the  lowest  dejection  at  the  idea  of  leaving  the  amiable 
women  who  had  been  so  kind  to  her,  and  above  all  at  the  idea  of 
the  last  sad  evening  she  was  to  pass  with  Lord  Mortimer. 

His  lordship  came  early  to  the  convent.  The  dejected  looks  of 
Amanda  immediately  struck  him,  and  renewed  all  his  apprehen- 
sions about  her  health*  She  answered  his  tender  inquiries  by  say 
ing  she  was  fatigued. 


THE  CHILDREN^  OF  THE  ABBEY.  347 

* Perhaps,’  said  he,  ‘you  would  like  to  rest  one  day,  and  not 
commence  your  journey  to-morrow  ! ’ 

‘ No,  no,’  cried  Amanda,  ' it  shall  not  be  deferred.  To-morrow,’ 
continued  she,  with  a smile  of  anguish,  ‘ I will  commence  it. ' 

Lord  Mortimer  thanked  her  for  a resolution,  he  imagined,  dic- 
tated by  an  ardent  desire  to  please  him  ; but  at  the  same  time  again 
expressed  his  fears  that  she  was  ill. 

Amanda  perceived  that  if  she  did  not  exert  herself  her  dejection 
would  lead  him  to  inquiries  she  would  find  it  difficult  to  evade  ; 
out  as  to  exert  herself  was  impossible,  in  order  to  withdraw  his  at- 
tention in  some  degree  from  herself,  she  proposed  that,  as  this  was 
the  last  evening  they  would  be  at  the  convent,  they  should  invite 
the  nuns  to  drink  tea  with  them.  Lord  Mortimer  immediately  ac- 
quiesced in  the  proposal,  and  the  invitation  being  sent  was  ac- 
cepted. 

But  the  conversation  of  the  whole  party  was  of  a melancholy 
kind.  Amanda  was  so  much  beloved  among  them,  that  the  pros- 
pect of  losing  her  filled  tliem  with  a regret  which  even  the  idea  of 
seeing  her  soon  again  could  not  banish.  About  nine,  which  was 
their  hour  for  prayers,  they  rose  to  retire,  and  would  have  taken 
leave  of  Lord  Mortimer,  had  he  not  informed  them,  that  on  Miss 
Fitzalan’s  account,  he  would  not  commence  the  journey  next  day 
till  ten  o’clock,  at  which  time  he  would  again  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  them. 

When  they  withdrew  he  endeavored  to  cheer  Amanda,  and  be- 
sought her  to  exert  her  spirits.  Of  his  own  accord,  he  said,  he 
would  leave  her  early,  that  she  might  get  as  much  rest  as  possible 
against  the  ensuing  day.  He  accordingly  rose  to  depart.  What 
an  agonizing  moment  for  Amanda  ; to  hear,  to  behold  the  man, 
so  tenderly  beloved,  for  the  last  time  ; to  think  that  ere  that  hour 
the  next  night  she  should  be  far,  far  away  from  him,  considered 
as  a treacherous  and  ungrateful  creature,  despised,  perhaps  exe- 
crated, as  a source  of  perpetual  disquiet  and  sorrow  to  him  ! Her 
heart  swelled  at  those  ideas  with  feelings  she  thought  would  burst 
it , and  when  he  folded  her  to  his  bosom,  and  bid  her  be  cheerful 
against  the  next  morning,  she  involuntarily  returned  the  pressure, 
by  straining  him  to  her  heart  in  convulsive  agitation,  while  a 
f hower  of  tears  burst  from  her.  Lord  Mortimer,  shocked  and 
surprised  at  these  tears  and  emotions,  reseated  her,  for  her  agitation 
was  contagious,  and  he  trembled  so  much  he  could  not  support  her  ; 
then  throwing  himself  at  her  feet,  ‘ My  Amanda  ! my  beloved 
girl  ! ’ cried  he,  ‘ what  is  the  matter  ? Is  any  wish  of  your  heart 
yet  unfulfilled  ? If  so,  let  no  mistaken  notion  of  delicacy  influence 
you  to  conceal  it — on  your  happiness  you  know  mine  depends  ; 
tell  me,  therefore,  I entreat,  I conjure  you,  tell  me,  is  there  any- 
thing I can  do  to  restore  you  to  cheerfulness  ? ’ ‘ Oh,  no  1 ’ said 


348 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Amanda,  ‘ all  that  a mortal  could  do  to  serve  me  you  have  already 
done,  and  my  gratitude,  the  fervent  sense  I have  of  the  obligations 
I lie  under  to  you,  I cannot  fully  express.  May  Heaven,’  raising 
her  streaming  eyes, — ‘may  Heaven  recompense  your  goodness  by 
bestowing  the  choicest  of  its  blessings  on  you  ! ’ ‘ That,  ’ said  Lord 
Mortimer,  half  smiling,  ‘ it  has  already  done  in  giving  you  to  me., 
for  you  are  the  choicest  blessing  it  could  bestow  ; but  tell  me, 
what  has  dejected  you  in  this  manner  ! something  more  thain 
fatigue,  I am  sure.’ 

Amanda  assured  him  ‘he  was  mistaken ’ ; and,  fearful  of  hh 
further  inquiries,  told  him,  ‘ she  only  waited  for  his  departure  to 
retire  to  rest,  which  she  was  convinced  would  do  her  good.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  instantly  rose  from  his  kneeling  posture  : ‘ Fare- 
well, then,  my  dear  Amanda,’  cried  he,  ‘ farewell,  and  be  well  and 
cheerful  against  the  morning.’ 

She  pressed  his  hand  between  hers,  and  laying  her  cold  wet 
cheek  upon  it  : ‘ Farewell,’  said  she  ; ‘ when  we  next  meet  I shall, 
I trust,  be  well  and  cheerful  ; for  in  heaven  alone  [thought  she  at 
that  moment]  we  shall  ever  meet  again.’ 

On  the  spot  in  which  he  left  her  Amanda  stood  motionless,  till 
she  heard  the  hall-door  close  after  him  ; all  composure  then  for- 
sook her,  and,  in  an  agony  of  tears  and  sobs,  she  threw  herself  on 
the  seat  he  had  occupied.  The  good  prioress,  guessing  what  her 
feelings  at  this  moment  nj^st  be,  was  at  hand,  and  came  in  with 
drops  and  water,  which  she  forced  her  to  take,  and  mingled  the 
tears  of  sympathy  with  hers. 

Her  soothing  attentions  in  a little  time  had  the  effect  she  desired. 

They  revived  in  some  degree  her  unhappy  young  friend,  who 
exclaimed,  ‘that  the  severest  trial  she  could  ever  possibly  ex- 
perience was  now  over.’  ‘And  will,  I trust  and  believe,’  replied 
the  prioress,  ‘ even  in  this  life  be  yet  rewarded.’ 

It  was  agreed  that  Amanda  should  put  on  her  habit,  and  be  pre- 
pared against  the  man  came  for  her.  The  prioress  promised,  as 
soon  as  the  house  was  at  rest,  to  follow  her  to  her  chamber. 
Amanda  accordingly  went  to  her  apartment  and  put  on  her 
traveling  dress.  She  was  soon  followed  by  the  prioress,  who 
brought  in  bread,  wine,  and  cold  chicken  ; but  the  full  heart  of 
Amanda  would  not  allow  her  to  partake  of  them,  and  her  tears, 
in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  restrain  them,  again  burst  forth.  ‘ She  was 
sure,’  she  said,  ‘the  prioress  would  immediately  let  her  know  if 
any  intelligence  arrived  of  her  brother,  and  she  again  besought 
her  to  write  as  soon  as  possible  after  her  departure,  and  to  be 
minute.’ 

She  left  the  letters — one  for  Lord  Mortimer  and  the  other  for  the 
prioress — on  the  table,  and  then  with  a kind  of  melancholy  im- 
patience waited  for  the  man,  who  was  punctual  to  the  appointed 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


349 


hour  of  three,  and  announced  his  arrival  by  a tap  at  the  win' 
dow. 

She  instantly  rose  and  embraced  the  prioress  in  silence,  who, 
almost  as  much  affected  as  herself,  had  only  power  to  say,  ‘ God 
bless  you,  my  dear  child,  and  make  you  as  happy  as  you  deserve 
to  be.’ 

Amanda  shook  her  head  mournfully,  as  if  to  say  she  expected 
no  happiness,  and  then,  softly  stepping  along  the  gallery,  opened 
the  hall-door,  where  she  found  the  man  waiting.  Her  little  trunk 
was  already  lying  in  the  hall.  She  pointed  it  out  to  him,  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  taken  it  they  departed. 

Never  did  any  being  feel  more  forlorn  than  Amanda  now  did. 
What  she  suffered  when  quitting  the  marchioness’s  was  com- 
parative happiness  to  what  she  now  endured.  She  then  looked 
forward  to  the  protection,  comfort,  and  support  of  a tender  parent  ; 
now  she  had  nothing  in  view  which  could  in  the  least  cheer  or 
alleviate  her  feelings.  She  cast  her  mournful  eyes  around,  and 
the  objects  she  beheld  heightened,  if  possible,  her  anguish.  She 
beheld  the  old  trees  which  shaded  the  grave  of  her  father  waving 
in  the  morning  breeze,  and  oh  ! how  fervently  at  that  moment 
did  she  wish  that  by  his  side  she  was  laid  beneath  their  shelter  ! 

She  turned  from  them  with  a heart-rending  sigh,  which  reached 
the  ear  of  the  man  who  trudged  before  her.  He  instantly  turned, 
and  seeing  her  pale  and  trembling,  told  her  he  had  an  arm  at  her 
service,  which  she  gladly  accepted,  being  scarcely  able  to  support 
herself.  A small  boat  was  waiting  for  them  about  half  a mile 
above  Castle  Carberry.  It  conveyed  them  in  a few  moments  to 
the  vessel,  which  the  master  previously  told  her  would  be  under 
weigh  directly.  She  was  pleased  to  find  his  wife  on  board,  who 
conducted  Amanda  to  the  cabin,  where  she  found  breakfast  laid 
out  with  neatness  for  her.  She  took  some  tea  and  a little  bread, 
being  almost  exhausted  with  fatigue.  Her  companion,  imputing 
her  dejection  to  fears  of  crossing  the  sea,  assured  her  the  passage 
would  be  very  short,  and  bid  her  observe  how  plainly  they  could 
see  the  Scottish  hills,  now  partially  gilded  by  the  beams  of  the  ris- 
ing sun  ; but,  beautiful  as  they  appeared,  Amanda’s  eyes  were 
turned  from  them  to  a more  interesting  object — Castle  Carberry. 
She  asked  the  woman  if  she  thought  the  castle  could  be  seen  from 
the  opposite  coast,  and  she  replied  in  the  negative. 

' I am  sorry  for  it,’  said  Amanda,  mournfully.  She  continued 
at  the  window  for  the  melancholy  pleasure  of  contemplating  it, 
till  compelled  by  sickness  to  lie  down  on  the  bed.  The  woman  at- 
tended her  with  the  most  assiduous  care,  and  about  four  o’clock  in 
the  afternoon  informed  her  they  had  reached  Port- Patrick. 
Amanda  arose,  and  sending  for  the  master,  told  him,  as  she  did 
not  wish  to  go  to  an  inn,  she  would  thank  him  to  hire  a chaise  to 


/ 


350 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  TxiE  ABBEY. 


carry  her  directly  to  Mrs.  Macpherson’s.  He  said  she  should  be 
obeyed  ; and  Amanda  having*  settled  with  him  for  her  passage,  he 
went  on  shore  for  that  purpose,  and  soon  returned  to  inform  her 
a carriage  was  ready.  Amanda,  having  thanked  his  wife  for  her 
kind  attention,  stepped  into  the  boat,  and  entered  the  chaise  the 
moment  she  landed.  Her  companion  told  her  he  was  well 
acquainted  with  Mrs.  Macpherson,  having  frequently  carried  pack- 
ets from  Mrs.  Dermot  to  her.  She  lived  about  five  miles  from 
Port-Patrick,  he  said,  and  near  the  sea-coast.  They  accordingly 
soon  reached  her  habitation.  It  was  a small,  low  house,  of  a gray- 
ish color,  situated  in  a field  almost  covered  with  thistles,  and 
divided  from  the  road  by  a rugged-looking  wall.  The  sea  lay  at  a 
little  distance  from  it.  The  coast  hereabouts  was  extremely  rocky ^ 
and  the  prospect  on  every  side  wild  and  dreary  in  the  extreme. 

Amanda’s  companion,  by  her  desire,  went  first  into  the  house  to 
prepare  Mrs.  Macpherson  for  her  reception.  He  returned  in  a few 
minutes,  and  telling  her  she  was  happy  at  her  arrival,  conducted 
her  into  the  house.  From  a narrow  passage,  they  turned  into  a 
small,  gloomy-looking  parlor,  with  a clay  floor.  Mrs.  Macpher- 
son was  sitting  in  an  old-fashioned  armchair — her  face  wa«  sharp 
and  meager — her  stature  low,  and,  like  Otway’s  ancient  Beldame, 
doubled  with  age ; her  gown  was  gray  stuff,  and,  though  she  was 
so  low,  it  was  not  long  enough  to  reach  her  ankle ; her  black  silk 
apron  was  curtailed  in  the  same  manner,  and  over  a little  mob-cap 
she  wore  a handkerchief  tied  under  the  chin.  She  just  nodded  to 
Amanda  on  her  entrance,  and,  putting  on  a pair  of  large  spectacles, 
surveyed  her  without  speaking.  Amanda  presented  Mrs.  Der- 
mot’s  introductory  letter,  and  then,  though  unbidden,  seated  her- 
self on  the  window  seat  till  she  had  perused  it.  Her  trunk,  in  the 
meantime,  was  brought  in,  and  she  paid  for  the  carriage,  request- 
ing at  the  same  time  the  master  of  the  vessel  to  wait  till  she  had 
heard  what  Mrs.  Macpherson  would  say.  At  length  the  old  ladY 
broke  silence,  and  her  voice  was  quite  as  sharp  as  her  face. 

‘ So,  child,  ’ said  she,  again  surveying  Amanda,  and  then  eleva(> 
ing  her  spectacles  to  have  a better  opportunity  of  speaking,  ‘ why. 
to  be  sure  I did  desire  my  cousin  to  get  me  a young  person,  bu\, 
not  one  so  young,  so  very  young,  as  you  appear  to  be.’  ‘Lord 
bless  you  !’  said  the  man,  ‘if  that  is  a fault,  why,  it  is  one  will, 
mend  every  day.’  ‘ Ay,  ay,’  cried  the  old  dame,  ‘ but  it  will  mend 
a little  too  slow  for  me.  However,  child,  as  you  are  so  well  rec- 
ommended, I will  try  you.  My  cousin  says  something  of  your  be- 
ing well  born,  and  having  seen  better  days.  However,  child,  I 
tell  you  beforehand,  I shall  not  consider  what  you  have  been,  but 
what  you  are  now.  I shall  therefore  expect  you  to  be  mild,  reg- 
ular, and  attentive — no  flaunting,  no  gadding,  no  chattering,  but 
staid,  sober,  and  modest.’  ‘Bless  your  heart,’ said  the  man,  ‘if 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


351 


you  look  in  her  face  you  will  see  she’ll  be  all  you  desire.  ’ ‘ Ay, 

ay,  so  you  may  say  ; but  I should  be  very  sorry  to  depend  upon 
the  promise  of  a face — like  the  heart,  it  is  often  treacherous  and 
deceitful  ; so  pray,  young  woman,  tell  me,  and  remember  I expect 
a conscientious  answer,  whether  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  da 
as  I wish?’  ‘Yes,  madam,’  replied  Amanda,  in  a voice  almost 
choked  by  the  variety  of  painful  emotions  she  experienced. 

‘Well,  then,  we  are  agreed,  as  you  know  the  salary  I give.’’^ 
The  master  of  the  vessel  now  took  his  leave,  never  having  been 
asked  by  Mrs.  Macpherson  to  take  any  refreshment. 

The  heart  of  Amanda  sunk  within  her  from  the  moment  she  en- 
tered Mrs.  Macpherson’s  door.  She  shuddered  at  being  left  with 
so  unsocial  a being  in  a place  so  wild  and  dreary.  A hovel 
near  St.  Catherine’s  she  would  have  thought  a palace  in  point  of 
real  comfort  to  her  present  habitation,  as  she  then  could  have  en- 
joyed the  soothing  society  of  the  tender  and  amiable  nuns.  The 
presence  of  the  master  of  the  vessel,  from  the  pity  and  concern 
he  manifested  for  her,  had  something  consolatory  in  it,  and  when 
he  left  the  room  she  burst  into  tears,  as  if  then,  and  not  till  then 
she  had  been  utterly  abandoned.  She  hastily  followed  him  out. 
‘ Give  my  love,  my  best  love,’  said  she,  sobbing  violently,  and  lay- 
ing her  trembling  hand  on  his,  ‘ to  Mrs.  Dermot,  and  tell  her, 
oh ! tell  her  to  write  directly,  and  give  me  some  comfort.’ 

‘You  may  depend  on  my  doing  so,’  replied  he,  ‘ but  cheer  up,  mjr 
dear  young  lady ; what  though  the  old  dame  in  the  parlor  is  a 
little  cranky,  she  will  mend,  no  doubt;  so  Heaven  bless  you,  and 
make  you  as  happy  as  you  deserve  to  be.’ 

Sad  and  silent,  Amanda  returned  to  the  parlor,  and  seating  her- 
self in  the  window,  strained  her  eyes  after  the  carriage  which  had 
brought  her  to  this  dismal  spot. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Of  joys  departed,  never  to  return, 

How  bitter  the  remembrance!— Blair. 

‘Well,  child,’  said  Mrs.  Macpherson,  ‘do  you  choose  to  take 
anything  ? ’ ‘I  thank  you,  madam,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘ I should 
like  a little  tea.’  ‘ Oh ! as  to  tea,  I have  just  taken  my  own,  and 
the  things  are  all  washed  and  put  by;  but,  if  you  like  a glass  of 
spirits  and  water,  and  a crust  of  bread,  you  may  have  it.’  Amanda 
said  she  did  not.  ‘Oh!  very  well,’  cried  Mrs.  Macpherson,  ‘I 
shall  not  press  you,  for  supper  will  soon  be  ready.’  She  then  de- 
sired Amanda  to  draw  a chair  near  hers,  and  began  torturing  her 
with  a variety  of  minute  and  trifling  questions  relative  to  herself^ 
the  nuns,  and  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Catherine’s. 


352 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Amanda  briefly  said,  ‘her  father  had  been  in  the  air  my,  that 
many  disappointments  and  losses  had  prevented  his  making  any 
provision  for  her,  and  that  on  his  death,  which  happened  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  convent,  the  nuns  had  taken  her  out  of  com- 
passion, till  she  procured  an  establishment  for  herself.’  ‘Ay, 
and  a comfortable  one  you  have  procured  yourself,  I promise 
you,’  said  Mrs.  Macpherson,  ‘ if  it  is  not  your  own  fault.’  She 
then  told  Amanda,  ‘ she  would  amuse  her  by  showing  her  her 
house  and  other  concerns.’  This  indeed  was  easily  done,  as  it  con- 
sisted but  of  the  parlor,  two  closets  adjoining  it,  and  the  kitchen, 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  entry ; the  other  concerns  were  a small 
garden,  planted  with  kail,  and  the  field  covered  with  thistles.  ‘ A 
good,  comfortable  tenement  this,’  cried  Mrs.  Macphersoi^,  shak- 
ing her  head  with  much  satisfaction,  as  she  leaned  upon  har  ebony 
headed  cane,  and  cast  her  eyes  around.  She  bid  Amandas  admire 
the  fine  prospect  before  the  door,  and,  calling  to  a red-haired  and 
bare-legged  girl,  desired  her  to  cut  some  thistles  to  put  into  the  fire, 
and  hasten  the  boiling  of  the  kail.  On  returning  to  the  parlor 
she  unlocked  a press,  and  took  out  a pair  of  coarse,  brown  sheets 
to  air  for  Amanda,  She  herself  slept  in  one  closet,  and  in  the 
other  was  a bed  for  Amanda,  laid  on  a half-decayed  bedstead,  with- 
out curtains,  and  covered  with  a blue-stuff  quilt.  The  closet  was 
lighted  by  one  small  window,  which  looked  into  the  garden,  and 
its  furniture  consisted  of  a broken  chair,  and  a piece  of  looking- 
glass  stuck  to  the  wall. 

The  promised  supper  was  at  length  served.  It  consisted  of  a few 
heads  of  kail,  some  oaten  bread,  a jug  of  water,  and  a small  vial 
half  full  of  spirits,  which  Amanda  would  not  taste,  and  the  old 
lady  herself  took  but  sparingly.  They  were  lighted  by  a smalf 
candle,  which,  on  retiring  to  their  closets,  Mrs.  Macpherson  cut 
between  them. 

Amanda  felt  relieved  by  being  alone.  She  could  now  without 
restraint  indulge  her  tears  and  her  reflections ; that  she  could  never 
enjoy  any  satisfaction  with  a being  so  ungracious  in  her  manners 
and  so  contracted  in  her  notions,  she  foresaw ; but,  disagreeable  as 
her  situation  must  be,  she  felt  inclined  to  continue  in  it,  from  the 
idea  of  its  giving  her  more  opportunities  of  hearing  from  Mrs.  Der- 
mot  than  she  could  have  in  almost  any  other  place,  and  by  these 
opportunities  alone  could  she  expect  to  hear  of  Lord  Mortimer; 
and  to  hear  of  him,  even  the  most  trifling  circumstance,  though 
divided,  forever  divided  from  him,  would  be  a source  of  exquisite 
though  melancholy  pleasure. 

To  think  she  should  hear  of  him,  at  once  soothed  and  fed  her 
melancholy.  It  lessened  the  violence  of  sorrow,  yet  without 
abating  its  intenseness  ; it  gave  a delicious  sadness  to  her  soul  she 
thought  would  be  ill  exchanged  for  any  feelings  short  of  those 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


353? 


she  must  have  experienced,  if  her  wishes  had  been  accomplished- 
She  enjoyed  the  pensive  luxury  of  virtuous  grief,  which  miti- 
gates the  sharp 

With  gracious  drops 
Of  cordial  pleasure, 

and  which  Akenside  so  beautifully  describes  ; nor  can  I forbear 
quoting  the  lines  he  has  written  to  illustrate  the  truth : 

Ask  the  faithful  youth 

Why  the  cold  urn  of  her,  whom  long  he  loved 
So  often  fills  his  arms,  so  often  draws 
His  lonely  footsteps  at  the  silent  hour, 

To  pay  the  mournful  tribute  of  his  tears  ? 

Oh,  he  will  tell  thee,  that  the  wealth  of  worlds 
Should  ne’er  seduce  his  bosom  to  forego 
That  sacred  hour,  when,  stealing  from  the  noise 
Of  care  and  envy,  sweet  remembrance  soothes 
With  virtue’s  kindest  looks  his  aching  heart. 

And  turns  his  tears  to  rapture. 

Fatigued  by  the  contending  emotions  she  experienced,  as  well 
as  the  sickness  she  went  through  at  sea,  Amanda  soon  retired  to 
her  flock  bed,  and  fell  into  a profound  slumber,  in  which  she 
continued  till  roused  in  the  morning  by  the  shrill  voice  of  Mrs. 
Macpherson,  exclaiming,  as  she  rapped  at  the  door,  ‘ Come,  come,, 
Frances,  it  is  time  to  rise.  ’ 

Amanda  started  from  her  sleep,  forgetting  both  the  name  she 
had  adopted  and  the  place  where  she  was  ; but  Mrs  Macpherson 
again  calling  her  to  arise,  restored  her  to  her  recollection.  She 
replied  she  would  attend  her  directly,  and  hurrying  on  her  clothes, 
was  with  her  in  a few  minutes.  She  found  the  old  lady  seated 
at  the  breakfast  table,  who,  instead  of  returning  her  salutation, 
said,  ‘ that  on  account  of  her  fatigue  she  excused  her  lying  so 
long  in  bed  this  morning,  for  it  was  now  eight  o’clock  ; but  in 
future  she  would  expect  her  to  rise  before  six  in  summer,  and 
seven  in  winter,  adding,  as  there  was  no  clock,  she  would  rap  at 
her  door  for  that  purpose  every  morning.’ 

. Amanda  assured  her  ‘ she  was  fond  of  rising  early,  and  always^ 
accustomed  to  it.’  The  tea  was  now  poured  out  ; it  was  of  the 
worst  kind,  and  sweetened  with  coarse  brown  sugar  ; the  bread 
was  oaten,  and  there  was  no  butter.  Amanda,  unused  to  such 
unpalatable  fare,  swallowed  a little  of  it  with  difficulty,  and  then, 
with  some  hesitation,  said  ‘ she  would  prefer  milk  to  tea.’  Mrs. 
Macpherson  frowned  exceedingly  at  this,  and,  after  continuing 
silent  a few  minutes,  said,  ‘ she  had  really  made  tea  for  two  people,, 
and  she  could  not  think  of  having  it  wasted;  besides,’  she  added, 

‘ the  economy  of  her  house  was  so  settled  she  could  not  infringe  it 
for  anyone.’  She  kept  no  cow  herself,  and  only  took  in  as  much 
milk  as  served  her  tea  and  an  old  tabby-cat. 

Amanda  replied,  ‘ it  was  of  no  consequence,’  and  Mrs.  Mao 


:^54  THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 

pTierson  said,  indeed  she  supposed  so,  and  muttered  something  of 
people  giving  themselves  airs  they  had  no  pretensions  to.  The 
tea  table  was  removed  before  nine,  when  the  school  began ; it  con- 
sisted of  about  thirty  girls,  most  of  them  daughters  of  farmers  in 
the  neighborhood.  Amanda  and  they  being  introduced  to  each 
other  (and  she  being  previously  informed  what  they  were  taught), 
was  desired  to  commence  the  task  of  instructing  them  entirely  her- 
self that  day,  as  Mrs.  Macpherson  wanted  to  observe  her  manner — 
a most  unpleasant  task  indeed  for  poor  Amanda,  whose  mind  and 
body  were  both  harassed  by  anxiety  and  fatigue.  As  she  had 
undertaken  it,  however,  she  resolved  to  go  through  it  with  as 
Tiiuch  cheerfulness  and  alacrity  as  possible.  She  accordingly 
acquitted  herself  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mrs.  Macpherson,  who  only 
found  fault  with  her  too  great  gentleness,  saying,  the  children 
would  never  fear  her.  At  two  the  school  broke  up,  and  Amanda, 
almost  as  delighted  as  the  children  to  be  at  liberty,  was  running 
into  the  garden  to  try  if  the  air  would  be  of  use  to  a very  violent 
headache  ; when  she  was  called  back  to  put  the  forms  and  other 
things;in  order.  She  colored,  and  stood  motionless,  till  recollecting 
that  if  she  refused  to  obey  Mrs.  Macpherson  a quarrel  would  prob- 
ably ensue,  which,  circumstanced  as  she  was,  without  knowing 
where  to  go  to,  would  be  dreadful,  she  silently  performed  what 
she  had  been  desired  to  do.  Dinner  was  then  brought  in  ; it  was  as 
simple  and  as  sparing  as  a Brahman  could  desire  it  to  be.  When 
over,  Mrs.  Macpherson  composed  herself  to  take  a nap  in  the  large 
kchair,  without  making  any  kind  of  apology  to  Amanda. 

Left  at  liberty,  Amanda  would  now  have  walked  out  ; but  it 
had  just  begun  to  rain,  and  everything  looked  dreary  and  desolate. 

From  the  window  in  which  she  pensively  sat  she  had  a view  of 
the  sea  ; it  looked  black  and  tempestuous,  and  she  could  distinguish 
its  awful  and  melancholy  roaring  as  it  dashed  against  the  rocks. 

The  little  servant-girl,  as  she  cleaned  the  kitchen,  sung  a dismal 
Scotch  ditty,  so  that  all  conspired  to  oppress  the  spirits  of  Amanda 
'with  a dejection  greater  than  she  had  before  ever  experienced  ; 
all  hope  was  now  extinct,  the  social  ties  of  life  seemed  broken, 
aever  more  to  be  reunited.  She  had  now  no  father,  no  friend,  no 
^over,  as  heretofore,  to  soothe  her  feelings,  or  alleviate  her  sorro  wSo 
iijike  the  poor  Belvidera  she  might  have  said. 

There  was  a time  her  cries  and  sorrows 
Were  not  despised,  when,  if  she  chanced  to  sigh. 

Or  but  look  sad,  a friend  or  t)arent 
Would 'have  taken  her  in  their  arms, 

Eased  her  declining  head  upon  their  breasts. 

And  never  left  her  till  they  found  the  cause; 

But  now  let  her  weep  seas, 

Cry  till  she  rend  the  earth,  sigh  till  she  burst 
Her  heart  asunder,  she  is  disregarded. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


355 


Like  a tender  sapling,  transplanted  from  its  native  soil,  she 
seemed  to  stand  alone,  exposed  to  every  adverse  blast.  Her  tears 
gushed  forth,  and  fell  in  showers  down  her  pale  cheeks.  She 
sighed  forth  the  name  of  her  father:  ‘Oh!  dear  and  most  benig- 
nant of  men,’  she  exclaimed,  ‘my  father  and  my  friend;  were 
you  living,  I should  not  be  so  wretched  ; pity  and  consolation 
would  then  be  mine.  Oh ! my  father,  one  of  the  dreariest  caverns 
in  yonder  rocks  would  be  an  asylum  of  comfort  were  you  witk 
m ' ; but  I am  selfish  in  these  regrets,  certain  as  I am  that  you  ex- 
changed this  life  of  wretchedness  for  one  of  eternal  peace,  for  one 
where  you  were  again  united  to  your  Malvina.’ 

Her  thoughts  adverted  to  what  Lord  Mortimer,  in  all  probability^ 
now  thought  of  her;  but  this  was  too  dreadful  to  dwell  upon,  con* 
vinced  as  she  was,  that,  from  appearances,  he  must  think  most 
unfavorably  of  her.  His  picture  was  hung  in  her  bosom,  she  drew 
it  out.  She  gazed  with  agonizing  tenderness  upon  it.  She  pressed 
it  to  her  lips,  and  prayed  for  its  original.  From  this  indulgence 
of  sorrow  she  was  disturbed  by  the  waking  of  Mrs.  Macpherson-^ 
She  hastily  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  hid  the  beloved  picture. 
The  evening  passed  most  disagreeably.  Mrs.  Macpherson  was  tedi- 
ous and  inquisitive  in  her  discourse,  and  it  was  almost  as  painful 
to  listen  as  to  answer  her.  Amanda  was  happy  when  the  hour  for 
retiring  to  bed  arrived,  and  relieved  her  from  what  might  be  called 
a kind  of  mental  bondage. 

Such  was  the  first  day  Amanda  passed  in  her  new  habitation, 
and  a week  passed  in  the  same  manner  without  any  variation, 
except  that  on  Sunday  she  had  a cessation  from  her  labors,  and  went 
to  the  kirk  with  Mrs.  Macpherson.  At  the  end  of  the  week  she^ 
found  herself  so  extremely  ill  from  the  fatigue  and  confinement 
she  endured,  as  Mrs.  Macpherson  would  not  let  her  walk  out,  say- 
ing, ‘ gadders  were  good  for  nothing  ’ — that  she  told  her,  except 
allowed  to  go  out  every  evening,  she  must  leave  her,  as  she  could 
not  bear  so  sedentary  a life.  Mrs.  Macpherson  looked  disconcerted, 
and  grumbled  a good  deal ; but  as  Amanda  spoke  in  a resolute  man- 
ner, she  was  frightened  lest  she  should  put  her  threats  into  exe- 
cution, she  was  so  extremely  useful  in  the  school ; and  at  last  told 
her  she  might  take  as  much  exercise  as  she  pleased  every  day  after 
dinner. 

Amanda  gladly  availed  herself  of  this  permission.  She  explored 
all  the  romantic  paths  about  the  house ; but  the  one  she  chiefly 
delighted  to  take  was  that  which  led  to  the  sea.  She  loved  to 
ramble  about  the  beach ; when  fatigued,  to  sit  down  upon  the  frag- 
ment of  a rock  and  look  toward  the  opposite  shore.  Vainly  then 
would  she  try  to  discover  some  of  the  objects  she  knew  so  well. 
Castle  Carberry  was  utterly  undistinguishable,  but  she  knew  the 
spot  on  which  it  stood,  and  derived  a melancholy  pleasure  from 


35G 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


looking  that  way.  In  these  retired  rambles  she  would  freely  in* 
dulge  her  tears,  and  gaze  upon  the  picture  of  Lord  Mortimer. 
.She  feared  no  observation ; the  rocks  formed  a kind  of  recess  about 
her,  and  in  going  to  them  she  seldom  met  a creature. 

A fortnight  passed  in  this  way,  and  she  began  to  feel  surprise 
and  uneasiness  at  not  hearing  from  Mrs.  Dermot.  If  much  longer 
;;silent,  she  resolved  on  writing,  feeling  it  impossible  to  endure 
much  longer  the  agony  her  ignorance  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  pro- 
ceedings gave  her.  The  very  morning  previous  to  the  one  she 
had  fixed  for  writing  she  saw  a sailor  coming  to  the  house,  and 
believing  he  was  the  bearer  of  a letter  to  her,  she  forgot  every- 
thing but  her  feelings  at  the  moment,  and  starting  from  her  seat 
ran  from  the  room.  She  met  him  a few  yards  from  the  house 
.and  then  perceived  he  was  one  of  the  sailors  of  the  vessel  she  had 
come  over  in.  ‘ You  have  a letter  for  me,  I hope?  ’ said  Amanda. 
The  man  nodded,  and  fumbling  in  his  bosom  for  a moment,  pulled 
out  a large  packet,  which  Amanda  snatched  with  eager  transport 
from  him ; and  knowing  she  could  not  attempt  to  bring  him  into 
the  house  for  refreshment,  gave  him  a crown  to  procure  it  else- 
where, which  he  received  with  thankfulness,  and  departed.  She 
then  returned  to  the  parlor,  and  was  hastening  to  her  closet  to 
read  the  letter,  when  Mrs.  Macpherson  stopped  her.  ‘Hey-day,’ 
cried  she,  ‘ what  is  the  matter  ? — what  is  all  this  fuss  about? 
Why,  one  would  think  that  was  a love  letter,  you  are  so  very 
eager  to  read  it.’  ‘ It  is  not,  then,  I can  assure  you,’  said  Amanda. 
‘ Well,  well ; and  who  is  it  from?  ’ Amanda  reflected  that  if  she 
isaid  from  Mrs.  Dermot  a number  of  impertinent  questions  would 
be  asked  her.  She  therefore  replied : ‘ From  a very  particular 
friend.’  ‘ From  a very  particular  friend!  Well,  I suppose  there  is 
nothing  about  life  or  death  in  it  so  you  may  wait  till  after  dinner 
io  read  it ; and  pray  sit  down  now,  and  hear  the  children  their 
spelling  lessons.’  This  was  a tantalizing  moment  to  Amanda. 
She  stood  hesitating  whether  she  should  obey,  till  reflecting  that 
if  she  went  now  to  read  the  packet,  she  should  most  probably  be 
interrupted  ere  she  had  got  through  half  the  contents,  she  resolved 
on  putting  it  up  till  after  dinner.  The  moment  at  last  came  for 
Mrs.  Macpherson’s  usual  nap,  and  Amanda  instantly  hastened 
to  a recess  among  the  rocks,  where,  seating  herself,  she  broke 
the  seal.  The  envelope  contained  two  letters.  The  first  she  cast 
her  eyes  upon  was  directed  in  Lord  Cherbury’s  hand.  She  trem- 
bled, tore  it  open,  and  read  as  follows : 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

In  vain,  my  dear  madam,  do  you  say  you  never  will  receive  pecuniary  favors  from 
me.  It  is  not  you,  but  I,  should  lie  under  obligations  from  their  acceptance.  I should 
<ieem  myself  the  most  ungrateful  of  mankind  if  I did  not  insist  on  carrying  this  point 
I am  but  ju£*'  returned  to  London,  and  shall  immediately,  order  my,  lawyer  to  draw  up 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


35r 


a deed  entitling  you  to  three  hundred  pounds  a year,  which,  when  completed,  I shall 
transmit  to  the  prioress  (as  I have  this  letter)  to  send  to  you.  I am  sensible,  indeed, 
that  I never  can  recompense  the  sacrifice  you  have  made  me.  The  feelings  it  has  ex- 
cited I shall  not  attem^^t  to  express,  because  language  could  never  do  them  justice,  but. 
you  may  conceive  what  I must  feel  for  the  be  ng  who  has  preserved  me  from  dishonor 
and  destruction.  I am  informed  Lord  Mortimer  has  left  Ireland,  and  therefore  daily  ex- 
pect him  in  town.  I have  now  not  only  every  hope,  but  every  prospect,  of  his  comply- 
ing with  my  wishes.  This,  I imagine,  will  be  rather  pleasing  to  you  to  hear,  that  you  may" 
know  the  sacrifice  you  have  made  is  not  made  in  vain,  but  will  be  attended  with  all  thet 
good  consequences  I expected  to  derive  from  it.  I should  again  enjoy  a tolerable  de- 
gree of  peace,  were  I assured  you  were  happy:  but  this  is  an  assurance  I will  hope  soon 
to  receive;  for  if  you  are  not  happy,  who  has  a right  to  expect  being  so?— you  whose 
virtue  is  so  pure,  whose  generosity  is  so  noble,  so  heroic,  so  far  superior  to  any  I have 
ever  met  with! 

That  in  this  world,  as  well  as  the  next,  you  may  be  rewarded  for  it,  is,  dear  madam,, 
the  sincere  wish  of  him  who  has  the  honor  to  subscribe  himself  your  most  grateful,, 
most  obliged,  and  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

Cherbitrt. 

‘Unfeeling  man?’  exclaimed  Amanda,  ‘how  little  is  your 
heart  interested  in  what  you  write,  and  how  slight  do  you  make, 
of  the  sacrifice  I have  made  you ; how  cruelly  mention  your  hopes^ 
which  are  derived . from  the  destruction  of  mine!  No,  sooner 
would  I wander  from  door  to  door  for  charity,  than  be  indebted: 
to  your  ostentatious  gratitude  for  support — you,  whose  treachei^y 
and  vile  deceit  have  ruined  my  happiness.’  She  closed  the  letter 
and  committing  it  to  her  pocket,  took  up  the  other,  which  she  saw 
by  the  direction  was  from  her  dear  Mrs.  Dermot. 

TO  MISS  DONALD 

Ah!  my  vhild,  why  extort  a promise  from  me  of  being  minute  in  relating  everything:; 
which  happened  inconsequence  of  your  departure— a promise  so  solemnly  given  that. 
I dare  not  recede  from  it;  yet  most  unwillingly  do  I keep  it,  sensible  as  I am  that  the 
intelligence  I have  to  communicate  will  but  aggravate  your  sorrows.  Methinks  I hear 
you  exclaim  at  this;  ‘ Surely,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dermot,  you  who  know  my  disposition  and. 
temper  so  well,  might  suppose  I would  receive  such  intelligence  with  a fortitude 
and  patience  that  would  prevent  its  materially  injuring  me.’  Well,  my  dear,  hoping 
this  will  be  the  case,  I begin,  without  further  delay,  to  communicate  particulars.  You. 
left  me,  you  may  remember,  about  three  o’clock.  I then  went  to  bed,  but  so  fatigued 
and  oppressed  I could  scarcely  sleep,  and  was  quite  unrefreshcd  by  what  I did  get- 
After  prayers  I repaired  to  the  parlor,  where  the  assiduous  care  of  Sister  Mary  had  al- 
ready prepared  every  thing  for  your  breakfast  and  Lord  Mortimer’s.  I told  the  sisters 
not  to  appear  till  they  were  sent  for.  I had  not  been  long  alone  when  Lord  Mortimer 
came  in — cheerful,  blooming,  animated.  Never  did  I see  happiness  so  strongly  im- 
pressed in  any  countenance  as  in  his.  He  looked,  indeed,  the  lover  about  receiving 
the  precious  reward  of  constancy.  He  asked  me  had  I seen  you?  I answered,  No. 
He  soon  grew  impatient,  said  you  were  a lazy  girl,  and  feared  you  would  make  a bad 
traveler.  He  then  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  the  maid  to  go  and  call  you.  Oh!  my 
dear  girl,  my  heart  almost  died  within  me  at  this  moment.  I averted  my  head,  and  pre- 
tended to  be  looking  at  the  garden  to  conceal  my  confusion.  The  maid  returned  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  said  you  were  not  above.  ‘Well,’  said  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘she  is  in 
some  other  apartment;  pray  search,  and  hasten  her  hither.’  In  a few  minutes  after  she 
departed  Sister  Mary,  all  pale  and  breathless,  rushed  into  the  room.  ‘ O Heavens  ! * 
cried  she,  ‘MissFitzalan  cannot  be  found;  but  here  are  two  letters  I found  on  her 
dressing  table— one  for  you,  madam,  and  one  for  Lord  Mortimer.  I know  not  how  he 
looked  at  this  instant,  for  a guilty  consciousness  came  over  my  mind,  which  prevented 
my  raising  my  eyes  to  his.  I took  the  letter  in  silence,  opened,  but  had  no  power  to  read 
it.  Sister  Mary  stood  by  me,  wringing  her  hands  and  weeping,  as  she  exclaimed,. 


258 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


What— what  does  she  say  to  you?  ’ I could  neither  answer  her  nor  move,  till  a deep 
•sigh,  or  rather  groan,  from  Lord  Mortimer  roused  me.  I started  from  my  seat,  and 
perceived  him  pale  and  motionless,  the  letter  open  in  his  hand,  upon  which  his  eyes 
were  riveted.  I threw  open  the  garden  door  to  give  him  air.  This  a little  revived  him. 

* Be  comforted,  my  lord,’  said  I.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  waving  his  hand 
for  me  neither  to  speak  nor  follow  him,  passed  into  the  garden.  ‘Blessed  Heaven!’ 
«aid  Sister  Mary  again,  ‘what  does  she  say  to  you?  ’ 1 gave  her  your  letter,  and  destapd 
iier  to  read  it  aloud,  for  the  tears  which  flowed  at  the  affecting  situation  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer quite  obscured  my  sight.  And  here,  my  dear  child,  I must  declare  that  you 
have  been  too  generous,  and  also,  that  the  sum  you  betrayed  us  into  taking  is  but  con- 
sidered as  a loan  by  us.  But,  to  return  to  my  first  subject.  The  alarm  concerning  you 
now  became  general,  and  the  nuns  crowded  into  the  room— grief  and  consternation  in 
•every  countenance.  In  about  half  an  hour  I saw  Lord  Mortimer  returning  to  the  par- 
lor, and  I then  dismissed  them.  He  had  been  endeavoring  to  compose  himself,  but 
Lis  efforts  for  doing  so  were  ineffectual.  He  trembled,  was  pale  as  death,  and  spoke 
with  a faltciing  voice.  He  gave  me  your  letter  to  read,  and  I put  mine  into  his  hand. 
“Well,  my  lord,’  said  I,  on  perusing  it,  ‘ we  must  rather  pity  than  condemn  her.’ 
^ From  my  soul,’  cried  he,  ‘ I pity  her— I pity  such  a being  as  Amanda  Fitzalan,  for 
•being  the  slave,  the  prey  of  vice.  But  she  has  been  cruel  to  me;  she  has  deceived,  in- 
humanly deceived  me  and  blasted  my  peace  for  ever!’  ‘Ah,  my  lord!’  I replied, 
though  appearances  are  against  her,  I can  never  believe  her  guilty.  She,  who  per- 
formed all  the  duties  of  a child  as  Amanda  Fitzalan  did,  and  who,  to  my  certain 
knowledge,  was  preparing  herself  for  a life  of  poverty,  can  never  be  a victim  to  vice.’ 

Mention  her  no  more,’  cried  he  ; ‘ her  name  is  like  a dagger  to  my  heart.  The  sus- 
picions which,  but  a few  nights  ago,  I could  have  killed  myself  for  entertaining,  are 
now  confirmed.  They  intruded  on  my  mind  from  seeing Belgrave  haunting  this  place, 
and  from  finding  her  secreted  amid  the  ruins  at  a late  hour.  Ah,  Heavens!  when  I no- 
ticed her  confusion,  how  easily  did  she  exculpate  herself  to  a heart  prepossessed  like 
mine  in  her  favor!  Unhappy,  unfortunate  girl!  sad  and  pitiable  is  thy  fate!  but  may  an 
early  repentance  snatch  thee  from  the  villain  who  now  triumphs  in  thy  ruin;  and  may 
we,  since  thus  separated,  never  meet  again.  So  well,’  continued  he,  ‘ am  I convinced  of 
the  cause  of  her  flight,  that  I shall  not  make  one  inquiry  after  her.’  I again  attempted 
to  speak  in  your  justification,  but  he  silenced  me.  I begged  he  would  allow  me  to  get 
him  breakfast.  He  could  touch  nothing,  and  said  he  must  return  directly  to  Castle  Car- 
berry,  but  promised,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  to  see  me  again.  I followed  him  into 
:the  hall.  At  the  sight  of  your  corded  boxes,  he  started,  and  shrunk  back,  with  that 
kind  of  melancholy  horror  which  we  involuntarily  feel  when  viewing  anything  that 
belonged  to  a dear,  lost  friend.  I saw  his  emotions  were  agonizing.  He  hid  his  face 
with  his  handkerchief,  and,  with  a hasty  step,  ascended  to  his  carriage,  which,  with  a 
traveling  chaise,  was  waiting  at  the  door. 

I own  I was  often  tempted,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  to  tell  him  all  I know 
.about  you  ; but  the  promise  I had  given  you  still  rose  to  my  view,  and  I felt,  without 
your  permission,  I could  not  break  it  ; yet,  my  dear,  it  is  shocking  to  me  to  have  such 
impii'Mtions  cast  on  you.  We  cannot  blame  Lord  Mortimer  for  them.  Situated  as  you 
were  with  him,  your  conduct  has  naturally  excited  the  most  injurious  suspicions. 
Surely,  my  child,  though  not  allowed  to  solve  the  mystery  which  has  separated  you 
from  him,  you  may  be  allowed  to  vindicate  your  conduct.  The  sacrifice  of  fame  and 
kappiness  is  too  much.  Consider  and  weigh  well  what  I say,  and,  if  possible,  authorize 
me  to  inform  Lord  Mortimer  that  I know  of  your  retreat,  and  that  you  have  retired 
neither  to  a lover  nor  a friend  ; but  to  indigence  and  obscurity,  led  thither  by  a fatal 
necessity  which  you  are  bound  to  conceal,  and  feel  more  severely  from  that  circum- 
-^tauce.  He  would,  I am  confident,  credit  my  words  ; and  then,  instead  of  condemning, 
would  join  me  in  pitying  you.  The  more  I reflect  on  your  unaccountable  separation, 
the  more  am  I bewildered  in  conjectures  relative  to  it,  and  convinced  more  strongly 
than  ever  of  the  frailty  of  human  joy,  which,  like  a summer  cloud,  is  bright,  but  tran- 
sitory in  its  splendor.  Lord  Mortimer  had  left  the  convent  about  two  hours,  when  his 
man  arrived  to  dismiss  the  traveling  chaise  and  attendants.  I went  out  and  inquired 
after  his  lord.  ‘ He  is  very  bad,  madam,’  said  he,  ‘ and  this  has  been  a sad  morning  for 
us  all.’  Never,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  did  I,  or  the  sisterhood,  pass  so  melancholy  a 
day.  About  five  in  the  afternoon,  I received  another  visit  from  Lord  Mortimer.  I was 
alone  in  the  parlor,  which  he  entered  with  an  appearance  of  the  deepest  melancholy; 
one  of  his  arms  was  in  a sling.  I was  terrified,  lest  he  and  Belgrave  had  met.  He 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


359 


conjectured,  I fancy,  the  occasion  of  the  terror  my  countenance  expressed,  for  he 
immediately  said  he  had  been  ill  on  returning  to  Castle  Carberry,  and  was  bled.  He 
■was  setting  off  directly  for  Dublin,  he  said,  from  whence  he  intended  to  embark  for 
England.  ‘ But  I could  not  depart,  my  dear,  good  friend,’  continued  he,  ‘ without  bidding 
you  farewell  ; besides,  I wanted  to  assure  you,  that  any  promise  which  the  unfortunate 
girl  made  you  in  my  name  I shall  hold  sacred.’  I knew  he  alluded  to  the  fifty  pounds 
which  he  had  desired  you  to  tell  me  should  be  annually  remitted  to  our  house.  I in- 
stantly, therefore,  replied,  that  we  had  already  been  rewarded  beyond  our  expectation 
or  desires  for  any  little  attention  we  showed  Miss  Fitzalan  ; but  his  generous  resolution 
was  not  to  be  shaken.  He  looked  weak  and  exhausted.  I begged  permission  to  make 
tea  for  him  ere  he  commenced  his  journey.  He  consented.  I went  out  of  the  room  to 
order  in  the  things.  When  I returned,  he  was  standing  at  the  window  which  looked 
oito  the  garden,  so  absorbed  in  meditation  that  he  did  not  hear  me.  1 heard  him  say, 

“ Cruel  Amanda  ! is  it  thus  you  have  rewarded  my  sufferings  ? ’ I retreated,  lest  he 
should  be  confused  by  supposing  himself  overheard,  and  did  not  return  till  the  maid 
brought  in  the  tea  things.  When  he  arose  to  depart,  he  looked  wavering  and  agitated, 
as  if  there  was  something  on  his  mind  he  wanted  courage  to  say.  At  last,  in  a faltering 
voice,  while  the  deadly  paleness  of  his  complexion  gave  way  to  a deep  crimson,  he  said, 

* I left  Miss  Pitzalan’s  letter  with  you.’  Ah,  my  dearl  never  did  man  love  woman  better 
than  he  did,  than  he  now  loves  you.  I took  the  letter  from  my  pocket,  and  presented 
it  to  him.  He  put  it  in  his  bosom,  with  an  emotion  that  shook  his  whole  frame.  I 
hailed  this  as  a favorable  opportunity  for  again  speaking  in  your  favor.  I bid  him  reko- 
spect  your  past  actions,  and  judge  from  them  whether  you  could  be  guilty  of  a crime — 
He  stopped  me  short.  He  begged  me  to  drop  a subject  he  was  unable  to  bear.  Had 
he  been  less  credulous,  he  said,  he  should  now  have  been  much  happier  ; then  wringing 
my  hand,  he  bid  me  farewell,  in  a voice,  and  with  a look,  that  drew  tears  from  me. 
‘Ah,  my  dear  madam  I ’ cried  he,  ‘ when  this  day  commenced,  how  differently  did  I 
think  it  would  have  terminated  !’ 

I attended  him  to  his  carriage.  He  was  obliged  to  lean  upon  his  man  as  he  ascended  to 
it,  and  his  looks  and  agitation  proclaimed  the  deepest  distress.  I have  sent  repeatedly 
.to  Castle  Carberry  since  his  departure  to  inquire  about  him,  and  have  been  informed 
that  they  expect  to  hear  nothing  of  him  till  Lord  Cherbury’s  agent  comes  into  the  coun- 
try, which  will  not  be  these  three  months. 

I have  heard  much  of  the  good  he  did  in  the  neighborhood.  He  has  a bounteous 
and  benevolent  spirit  indeed.  To  our  community  he  has  been  a liberal  benefactor,  and 
our  prayers  are  daily  offered  up  for  his  restoration  to  health  and  tranquillity.  Among 
his  other  actions,  when  in  Dublin,  about  three  months  ago,  he  ordered  a monument  to 
the  memory  of  Captain  Fitzalan,  which  has  been  brough*.  down  since  your  departure 
and  put  up  in  the  parish  church,  where  he  is  interred.  I sent  Sister  Mary  and  another 
of  the  nuns  the  other  evening  to  see  it,  and  they  brought  me  a description  of  it.  It  is 
a white  marble  urn,  ornamented  with  a foliage  of  laurel,  and  standing  upon  a pedestal 
of  gray,  on  which  the  name  of  the  deceased,  and  words  to  the  following  effect,  are  in- 
acribed,  namely  : ‘ That  he  whose  memory  it  perpetuates  performed  the  duties  of  a 
Christian  and  a soldier,  with  a fidelity  and  zeal  that  now  warrants  his  enjoying  a blessed 
recompense  for  both.’ 

I know  this  proof  of  respect  to  your  father  will  deeply  affect  you  ; but  I would  not 
omit  telling  it,  because,  though  it  will  affect,  I am  confident  it  will  also  please  you.  The 
late  events  have  cast  a gloom  over  all  our  spirits.  Sister  Mary  now  prays  more  than 
ever  ; and  you  know  I have  often  told  her  she  was  only  lit  for  a religious  vocation.  It 
is  a bad  world,  she  says,  we  live  in,  and  she  is  glad  she  has  so  little  to  say  to  it. 

I am  longing  to  hear  from  you.  Pray  tell  me  how  you  like  Mrs.  Macpherson.  I 
iave  not  seen  her  since  her  youth,  and  years  often  produce  as  great  a change  in  the 
temper  as  The  face.  At  any  rate,  your  present  situation  is  too  obscure  for  you  to  con- 
tinue in,  and,  as  soon  as  your  thoughts  are  collected  and  oomposed,  you  must  lookout 
for  another.  I hope  you  will  be  constant  in  writing  ; but  I tell  you  beforehand,  you 
must  not  expect  me  to  be  punctual  in  my  answers— I have  been  so  long  disused  to  writing^ 
and  my  eyes  are  grown  so  weak.  This  letter  has  been  the  work  of  many  days  ; besides, 
I have  really  nothing  interesting  to  communicate  ; whenever  I have,  you  may  be  assured 
I shall  not  lose  a moment  in  informing  you. 

The  woman  was  extremely  thankful  for  the  five  guineas  you  left  her.  Lord  Morti- 
mer  sent  her  five  more  by  his  man  ; so  that  she  thinks  herself  well  rewarded  for  any 
trouble  or  disappointment  she  experienced.  If  you  wiel2  to  have  any  of  your  things  sent 


360 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


to  yon,  acquaint  me  ; you  know  I shall  never  want  an  opportunity  by  the  master  of  the 
vessel.  He  speaks  largely  of  your  generosity  to  him,  and  expresses  much  pity  at  seeing 
so  young  a person  in  such  melancholy.  May  Heaven,  if  it  does  not  remove  the  sources, 
at  least  lessen  this  melancholy. 

If  possible,  allow  me  to  write  to  Lord  Mortimer,  and  vindicate  you  from  the  unworthy 
suspicions  he  entertains  of  you.  1 know  he  would  believe  me,  and  I should  do  it  with- 
out discovering  your  retreat.  Farewell,  my  dear  girl.  I recommend  you  constantly 
to  the  care  of  Heaven,  and  beg  you  to  believe  you  will  ever  be  dear  and  interesting  to 
the  heart  of 

Elizabeth  Dermot. 

St.  Catherine's. 

Poor  Amanda  wept  over  this  letter.  ‘ I have  ruined  the  healthy 
the  peace  of  Lord  Mortimer,’  she  exclaimed,  ‘ and  he  now  execrates 
me  as  the  source  of  his  unhappiness.  O Lord  Cherbury,  how 
severely  do  I suffer  for  your  crime  ! ’ She  began  to  think  her 
virtue  had  been  too  heroic  in  the  sacrifice  she  had  made.  But  this 
was  a transient  idea,  for  when  she  reflected  on  the  disposition  of 
Lord  Cherbury,  she  was  convinced  the  divulgement  of  his  secret 
would  have  been  followed  by  his  death  ; and,  great  as  was  her 
present  wretchedness,  she  felt  it  light  compared  to  the  horrors 
she  knew  she  would  experience  could  she  accuse  herself  of  being 
accessory  to  such  an  event.  She  now  drank  deeply  of  the  cup  of 
misery,  but  conscious  rectitude,  in  some  degree,  lessened  its 
noxious  bitterness.  She  resolved  to  caution  Mrs.  Dermot  against 
mentioning  her  in  any  manner  to  Lord  Mortimer.  She  was  well 
convinced  he  would  believe  no  asseveration  of  her  innocence. 
And  even  if  he  did,  what  end  could  answer  ? Their  union  was 
opposed  by  an  obstacle  not  to  be  surmounted,  and  if  he  sought  and 
discovered  her  retreat,  it  would  only  lead  to  new  sorrows,  perhaps 
occasion  some  dreadful  catastrophe.  ‘ We  are  separated,’  cried  she, 
folding  her  hands  together,  ‘ forever  separated  in  this  world,  but 
in  Heaven  we  shall  again  be  reunited.* 

Absorbed  in  the  reflections  and  sorrow  this  letter  gave  rise  to, 
she  remained  in  her  seat  till  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  little  girl  suddenly 
appeared  before  her,  and  said  her  mistress  had  made  tea,  and  was 
wondering  what  kept  her  out  so  long. 

Amanda  instantly  arose,  and  carefully  putting  up  the  letter, 
returned  to  the  house,  where  she  found  Mrs.  Macpherson  in  a 
very  bad  humor.  She  grumbled  exceedingly  at  Amanda’s  staying 
out  so  long,  and  taking  notice  of  her  eyes  being  red  and  swelled, 
said,  ‘ indeed,  she  believe  she  was  right  in  supposing  she  had  got 
a love-letter.  ’ Amanda  made  no  reply,  and  the  evening  passed 
away  in  peevishness  on  one  side  and  silence  on  the  other. 

The  charm  which  had  hitherto  rendered  Amanda’s  situation 
tolerable  was  now  dissolved,  as  Mrs.  Dermot  had  said  shb  could 
write  but  seldom,  and  scarcely  expected  to  have  anything  interest- 
ing to  relate.  She  would  gladly,  therefore,  have  left  Mrs.  Mac- 
pherson immediately,  but  she  knew  not  where  to  go.  She  re 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


361 


solved,  however,  ere  winter  had  entirely  set  in,  to  request  Mrs„ 
Dermot  to  look  out  for  some  other  place  for  her  ; as  she  had  con- 
nections in  Scotland,  she  thought  she  might  recommend  her  to 
them  as  a governess,  or  a fit  person  to  do  fine  works  for  a lady 
She  rose  long  before  her  usual  hour  the  next  morning,  and 
wrote  a letter  expressive  of  her  wishes  and  intentions  to  Mrs. 
Dermot,  which  she  sent  by  a poor  man,  who  lived  near  the  house, 
to  the  post  town,  rewarding  him  liberally  for  his  trouble. 

* 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Who  knows  the  joys  of  friendship 
The  trust,  security,  and  mutual  tenderness, 

The  double  joys,  where  each  is  glad  for  both; 

Friendship,  our  only  wealth,  our  last  retreat  and  strength, 

Secure  against  ill-fortune  and  the  world?— Rowe. 

Among  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  pupils  were  two  little  girls,  who 
pleased  and  interested  Amanda  greatly.  Their  father,  for  whom 
they  were  in  mourning,  had  perished  in  a violent  storm,  and  their 
mother  had  pined  in  health  and  spirits  ever  since  the  fatal  acci- 
dent. The  kindness  with  which  Amanda  treated  them,  they  repaid 
with  gratitude  and  attention.  It  had  a double  effect  upon  their 
little  hearts,  from  being  contrasted  with  the  sour  austerity  of  Mrs. 
Macpherson.  They  told  Amanda,  in  a whisper,  one  morning,  that 
their  mamma  was  coming  to  see  their  dear,  good  Frances  Don- 
ald. 

Accordingly,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  Mrs.  Duncan  came.  She 
was  young  and  pleasing  in  her  appearance  ; her  weeds  and  deep 
dejection  rendered  her  a most  interesting  object.  She  sat  by 
Amanda,  and  took  an  opportunity,  while  Mrs.  Macpherson  was  en- 
gaged with  some  of  the  children,  to  tell  her,  in  a low  voice,  ‘ she 
was  truly  obliged  to  her  for  the  great  attention  and  kindness  she 
showed  her  little  girls,  so  unlike  their  former  treatment  at  the 
school.’  ‘The  task  of  instructing  them  was  hers,’  she  said,  ‘till 
her  declining  health  and  spirits  rendered  her  no  longer  able  to 
bear  it.’  Amanda  assured  her,  ‘it  was  a pleasure  to  instruct 
minds  so  docile  and  sweet  tempered  as  theirs.’  Mrs.  Duncan,  as 
she  rose  to  depart,  asked  her  and  Mrs.  Macpherson  to  tea  that 
evening,  which  invitation  was  instantly  accepted  by  Mrs.  Mac- 
pherson, who  was  extremely  fond  of  being  sociable  everywhere 
but  in  her  own  house.  Mrs.  Duncan  lived  at  but  a little  distance, 
and  everything  in  and  about  her  house  was  neat  and  comfortable. 
She  had  an  old  neighbor  in  the  parlor,  who  kept  Mrs.  Macpher- 
son in  chat,  and  gave  her  an  opportunity  of  conversing  freely 
with  Amanda.  She  remarked  the  delicacy  of  her  looks,  and  said 
‘She  believed  she  was  ill-qualified  to  endure  so  fatiguing  a life  ai 


362 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


her  present  one.’  She  mentioned  her  lonely  and  melancholy  life 
and  the  happiness  she  would  derive  from  having  such  a compam 
ion,  and  expressed  her  hopes  of  often  enjoying  her  society.  Aman- 
da said  this  would  be  impossible  without  disobliging  Mrs.  Mac- 
pherson;  and  Mrs.  Duncan,  on  reflection,  allowed  it  would  be  so. 
She  then  inquired  if  she  ever  walked?  Amanda  replied  she  did, 
and  was  asked  where  she  generally  rambled.  By  the  seaside, 
she  answered.  Mrs  Duncan  sighed  deeply,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  ‘ It  is  there  I generally  ramble  too,’  said  she.  This 
led  to  the  mention  of  her  late  loss.  ‘ Mr.  Duncan  had  been  the 
kindest,  best  of  husbands,’  she  said;  the  first  years  of  their  mar- 
riage were  attended  with  difficulties,  which  were  just  removed, 
when  he  was  lost  on  a party  of  pleasure,  with  several  others. 
‘ It  was  some  consolation,  however,’  continued  Mrs.  Duncan,  ‘ that 
the  body  was  cast  upon  the  shore,  and  I had  the  power  of  pay- 
ing the  last  rites  of  decency  and  respect  to  him.’  In  short,  be- 
tween her  and  Amanda  there  appeared  a mutual  sympathy, 
which  rendered  them  truly  interesting  to  each  other.  From  this 
period  they  generally  met  every  evening,  and  passed  many  hours 
on  the  ‘sea-beat  shore,’  talking,  and  often  weeping,  overjoys  de- 
parted, never  to  return ! Mrs.  Duncan  was  too  delicate  to  inquire 
into  Amanda’s  former  situation : but  was  well  convinced  it  had 
been  very  different  from  her  present  one.  Amanda,  however, 
of  her  own  accord,  told  her  what  she  had  told  Mrs.  Macpherson 
respecting  herself.  Mrs.  Duncan  lamented  her  misfortunes:  but 
since  she  had  met  them,  blessed  the  happy  chance  which  con- 
ducted her  near  her  habitation. 

A month  passed  in  this  manner,  when  one  evening,  at  the 
usual  place  of  meeting,  Mrs.  Duncan  told  her,  ‘ that  she  believed 
she  should  soon  be  quitting  that  part  of  the  country.’  Amanda 
started,  and  turned  pale  at  this  disagreeable  intelligence.  She 
had  received  no  answer  to  her  letter  from  Mrs.  Dermot,  conse- 
quently dreaded  that  necessity  would  compel  her  to  remain  in  her 
present  situation,  and  on  Mrs.  Duncan’s  society  she  had  depended 
for  rendering  it  bearable  to  her. 

‘I  have  been  invited,  my  dear  girl,’  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  leaning 
on  her  arm  as  they  walked  up  and  down  the  beach,  ‘ to  reside 
with  an  aunt,  who  has  always  been  kind,  and  particularly  so  to 
me  in  my  distress.  She  lives  about  ten  miles  from  this,  at  an 
old  place  called  Dunreath  Abbey,  of  which  she  is  housekeeper. 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  it  ? ’ Amanda’s  agitation,  at  hearing  her 
mother’s  native  habitation  mentioned,  is  not  to  be  described. 
Her  heart  palpitated;  she  felt  her  color  cViange,  and  said  Yes  and 
No  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  without  knowing  what  she  answered.  Then 
recollecting  herself,  she  replied,  ‘she  had  heard  of  it.’  ‘Well, 
then,  my  dear,’  continued  Mrs.  Duncan,  ‘ my  aunt,  as  I have  al 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


363 


ready  told  you,  is  housekeeper  there.  She  lives  in  great  grandeur, 
for  it  is  a magnificent  old  seat,  and  has  the  absolute  command 
of  everything,  as  none  of  the  family  have  resided  at  it  since  the 
Earl  of  Dunreath’s  decease.  My  aunt  is  lately  grown  weary  of 
the  profound  solitude  in  which  she  lives,  and  has  asked  me,  in  a 
letter  which  I received  this  morning,  to  go  immediately  and  take 
up  my  residence  with  her,  promising,  if  I do,  she  will  leave  every- 
tl ling  she  is  worth  to  me  and  my  children;  and  as  her  salary  is 
very  good,  I know  she  must  have  saved  a good  deal.  This  is  a 
very  tempting  offer,  and  I am  only  withheld  from  accepting  it 
directly  by  the  fear  of  depriving  my  children  of  the  advantages 
of  education.’  ‘ Why,’  said  Amanda,  ‘ what  they  learn  at  Mrs. 
Macpherson’s  they  could  easily  learn  anywhere  else.’  ‘ But  I in- 
tended, when  they  were  a little  older,’  replied  Mrs.  Duncan,  ‘to 
go  to  some  one  of  the  neighboring  towns  with  them.  If  I once 
go  to  my  aunt,  I must  entirely  relinquish  such  an  idea,  and  to  a 
boarding  school  I could  not  send  them,  for  I have  not  fortitude 
to  bear  a separation  from  them.  What  I wish,  therefore,  is  to 
procure  a person  who  would  be  at  once  a pleasing  companion  for 
me,  and  an  eligible  governess  for  them.  With  such  a person,  the 
solitude  of  Dunreath  Abbey  would  be  rather  agreeable  than  irk- 
some to  me.’ 

She  looked  earnestly  at  Amanda  as  she  spoke,  and  Amanda’s 
heart  began  to  throb  with  hope  and  agitation.  ‘ In  short,  my  dear 
girl,’ continued  she,  ‘ you  of  all  others,  to  be  explicit,  are  the 
person  I would  choose  to  bring  along  with  me.  Your  sweet  society 
would  alleviate  my  sorrows,  and  your  elegant  accomplishments 
give  to  my  children  all  the  advantages  I desire  them  to  possess.’ 
^ I am  not  only  flattered,  but  happy  by  your  prepossession  in  my 
favor,’  replied  Amanda. 

‘ I am  pleased  we  agree  in  point  of  inclination,’  said  Mrs. 
Duncan  ; ‘ but  I must  now  inform  you  that  my  aunt  has  always 
been  averse  to  admit  any  strangers  to  the  Abbey.  Why,  I know 
not,  except  it  is  by  the  commands  of  the  family  ; and  she  tells  me 
\n  her  letter,  that  if  I accept  her  invitation,  I must  not  on  any 
account  let  it  be  known  where  I am  removing  to.  I dare  not, 
therefore,  bring  you  with  me  without  her  permission  ; but  I shall 
write  immediately  and  request  it.  In  the  course  of  a day  or  two 
I may  expect  an  answer.  In  the  meantime,  give  Mrs.  Macpherson 
no  intimation  of  our  present  intentions,  lest  they  should  be  de- 
feated.’ Amanda  promised  she  would  not,  and  they  separated. 

She  was  now  in  a state  of  the  greatest  agitation,  at  the  prob- 
ability there  was  that  she  might  visit  the  seat  of  her  ancestors. 
She  dreaded  a disappointment,  and  felt  that,  if  she  went  there 
as  the  companion  of  Mrs.  Duncan,  she  should  be  better  situated 
than  a few  hours  before  she  had  ever  expected  to  be  again.  Two 


364 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


evenings  after  her  conversation  with  Mrs.  Duncan,  on  going  to 
the  beach  to  meet  her,  she  saw  her  approaching  with  an  open  letter 
in  her  hand,  and  a smile  on  her  face,  which  informed  her  its  con- 
tents were  pleasing.  They  were  so  indeed,  as  they  gave  permission 
to  have  Amanda  brought  to  the  Abbey,  provided  she  promised  in- 
violable secrecy  as  to  where  she  was  going.  This  Amanda  cheer- 
fully did,  and  Mrs.  Duncan  said  she  had  some  affairs  to  settle, 
which  would  prevent  their  departure  for  a few  days.*  At  whatever 
time  she  appointed,  her  aunt  was  to  send  a carriage  for  then,  and 
it  was  now  agreed  that  Mrs.  Macpherson  should  be  informed  Mrs. 
Duncan  was  leaving  that  part  of  the  country,  and  had  engaged 
Amanda  as  a governess  to  her  children. 

Mrs.  Duncan  then  mentioned  her  own  terms.  Amanda  assured 
her  an  idea  of  them  had  never  entered  her  thoughts.  Mrs.  Duncan 
said  she  was  sure  of  that,  but  at  the  same  time  thought  between 
the  most  intimate  friends  exactness  should  be  preserved.  Every- 
thing being  settled  to  their  mutual  satisfaction,  they  separated, 
and  the  following  day,  after  school  broke  up,  Amanda  informed 
Mrs.  Macpherson  of  her  intended  departure.  The  old  dame  was 
thunderstruck,  and  for  some  time  unable  to  speak  ; but  when  she 
recovered  the  use  of  her  tongue,  she  expressed  the  utmost  rage 
and  indignation  against  Amanda,  Mrs.  Duncan,  and  the  prioress. 
Against  the  first  for  thinking  of  leaving  her,  the  second  for  in- 
veigling her  away,  and  the  third  for  recommending  a person  who 
could  serve  her  in  such  a manner.  When  she  stopped,  exhausted 
by  her  violence,  Amanda  took  the  opportunity  of  assuring  her 
that  she  had  no  reason  to  condemn  any  of  them ; as  for  her  part, 
previous  to  Mrs.  Duncan’s  offer,  she  intended  to  leave  her,  being 
unable  to  bear  a life  of  such  fatigue  ; that  as  her  removal  would 
not  be  immediate,  Mrs.  Macpherson  could  suffer  no  inconvenience 
by  it,  there  being  time  enough  to  look  out  for  another  person  ere 
it  took  place.  But  the  truth  now  broke  from  Mrs.  Macpherson  ; 
angry  as  she  was  with  Amanda,  she  could  not  help  confessing, 
that  she  never  again  expected  to  meet  with  a person  so  well  qualb 
fled  to  please  her,  and  a torrent  of  bitter  reproaches  again  burst 
forth  for  her  quitting  her. 

Amanda  resented  them  not,  but  did  all  in  her  power  to  mollify 
her  ; as  the  most  effectual  method  of  doing  so,  she  declared  she 
meant  to  take  no  recompense  for  the  time  she  had  been  with  her, 
and  added,  if  she  had  her  permission,  she  would  write  that  evening 
to  Mrs.  Dermot  about  a woman  she  had  seen  at  the  convent,  whom 
she  thought  well  qualified  to  be  an  assistant  in  her  school.  This 
was  the  woman  who  had  been  engaged  to  attend  her  to  England. 
Mrs.  Macpherson  at  last  consented  she  should  write  for  her,  as 
her  wrath  had  gradually  subsided  from  the  moment  Amanda  de- 
clared she  would  take  no  payment.  Amanda  accordingly  wrote 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


365 


Co  Mrs.  Dermot,  and  informed  her  of  the  agreeable  change  there 
was  about  taking  place  in  her  situation  ; also  of  Mrs.  Macpherson’s 
displeasure,  and  her  own  wish  that  a person  might  immediately 
be  procured  to  fill  the  place  she  was  resigning.  She  mentioned 
the  woman  already  spoken  of  as  a proper  person,  but  requested, 
if  she  consented  to  come,  she  might  not  be  allowed  to  do  so  till 
she  had  left  Mrs.  Macpherson’s,  else  who  she  really  was  would  be 
betrayed.  She  now  thought  little  of  the  tedious  and  disagreeable 
days  she  spent,  as  the  eagerness  with  which  she  saw  Mrs.  Duncan 
preparing  for  their  departure  promised  so  speedily  to  change  them. 
She  received  an  answer  from  Ireland  even  sooner  than  she  ex- 
pected. Mrs.  Dermot  congratulated  her  on  having  met  with  so 
amiable  a friend  as  Mrs.  Duncan,  said  the  woman  accepted  the 
offer  made  in  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  name,  but  should  not  depart  till 
she  had  written  for  that  purpose,  and  concluded  her  letter  by  say- 
ing, there  was  no  intelligence  yet  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Mrs.  Mac- 
pherson  was  pleased  to  find  she  should  not  be  long  without  a com- 
panion, and  two  days  after  the  receipt  of  the  letter  Mrs.  Duncan 
told  Amanda  their  journey  was  fixed  for  the  ensuing  day,  and 
begged  Amanda  to  sleep  at  her  house  that  night,  to  which  she 
gladly  consented ; accordingly,  after  dinner,  she  took  leave  of  Mrs. 
Macpherson,  who  grumbled  out  a farewell,  and  a hope  that  she 
might  not  have  reason  to  repent  quitting  her,  for  the  old  lady  was 
so  incensed  to  have  the  place  Mrs.  Duncan  was  going  to  concealed 
from  her  that  all  her  ill  humor  had  returned.  Amanda,  with  a 
pleasure  she  could  scarcely  conceal,  quitted  her  inhospitable 
mansion,  and,  attended  by  a man  who  carried  her  trunk,  soon 
found  herself  at  Mrs.  Duncan’s,  where  she  was  received  with  every 
demonstration  of  joy.  The  evening  passed  sociably  away  ; they 
rose  early  in  the  morning,  and  had  just  breakfasted  when  the  ex- 
pected carriage  from  Dunreath  Abbey  arrived.  It  was  a heavy, 
old-fashioned  chaise,  on  whose  faded  panels  the  arms  of  the  Dun- 
reath family  were  still  visible.  Mrs.  Duncan’s  luggage  had  been 
sent  off  the  preceding  day,  so  that  there  was  nothing  now  to  delay 
them.  Mrs.  Duncan  made  Amanda  and  the  children  go  into  the 
chaise  before  her,  but,  detained  by  an  emotion  of  the  most  painful 
nature,  she  lingered  some  time  after  them  upon  the  threshold. 
She  could  not  indeed  depart  from  the  habitation  where  she 
had  experienced  so  many  happy  days  with  the  man  of  her  ten- 
derest  affections  without  a fiood  of  tears,  which  spoke  the  bitterness 
of  her  f eelin gs.  Amanda  knew  too  well  liie  nature  of  those  feelings 
to  attempt  restraining  them  ; but  the  little  children,  impatient  to 
begin  their  journey,  called  out  to  their  mamma  to  come  into  the 
carriage.  She  started  when  they  spoke,  but  instantly  complied 
with  their  desire  ; and  when  they  expressed  their  grief  at  seeing  her 
cheeks  wet  with  tears,  kissed  them  both,  and  said  she  would  soon 


366 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


recover  her  spirits.  She  accordingly  exerted  herself  for  thatpui^ 
pose,  and  was  soon  in  a condition  to  converse  with  Amanda.  The 
day  was  fine  and  serene  ; they  traveled  leisurely,  for  the  horses 
had  long  outlived  their  mettlesome  days,  and  gave  them  an  oppor- 
tunity of  attentively  viewing  the  prospects  on  each  side,  which 
were  v^arious,  romantic,  and  beautiful  ; the  novelty  of  the  scenes 
the  disagreeable  pla<»€  she  had  left,  and  the  idea  of  the  one  shct 
was  going  to  helped  a little  to  enliven  the  pensive  soul  of  Amanda, 
and  she  enjoyed  a greater  degree  of  tranquillity  than  she  had  be- 
fore experienced  since  her  separation  from  Lord  Mortimer. 


CHAPTER  XLTV. 

My  listening  powers 

Were  awed,  and  every  thought  in  silence  hong 

And  wondering  expectation.— A kenside. 

‘ My  dear  Fanny,’  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  addressing  our  heroine  by 
her  borrowed  name,  ‘if  at  all  inclined  to  superstition,  you  are 
now  going  to  a place  which  will  call  it  forth.  Dunreath  Abbey  is 
gothic  and  gloomy  in  the  extreme,  and  recalls  to  one’s  mind  all  the 
stories  they  ever  heard  of  haunted  houses  and  apparitions.  The 
desertion  of  the  native  inhabitants  has  hastened  the  depredations 
of  time,  whose  ravages  are  unrepaired,  except  in  the  part  immedi- 
ately occupied  by  the  domestics.  Yet  what  is  the  change  in  the 
building  compared  to  the  revolution  which  took  place  in  the  for- 
tunes of  her,  who  once  beheld  a prospect  of  being  its  mistress.  The 
earl  of  Dunreath’s  eldest  daughter,  as  I have  often  heard  from 
many,  was  a celebrated  beauty,  and  as  good  as  she  was  handsome, 
but  a malignant  stepmother  thwarted  her  happiness,  and  forced 
her  to  take  shelter  in  the  arms  of  a man  who  had  everything  but 
fortune  to  recommend  him — but,  in  wanting  that,  he  wanted 
everything  to  please  her  family.  After  some  years  of  distress, 
she  found  means  to  soften  the  heart  of  her  father ; but  here  the  in- 
vidious stepmother  again  interfered,  and  prevented  her  experienc- 
ing any  good  effects  from  his  returning  tenderness,  and,  it  was 
rumored,  by  a deep  and  iniquitous  scheme,  deprived  her  of  her 
birthright.  Like  other  rumors,  however,  it  gradually  died  away, 
perhaps  from  Lady  Malvina  and  her  husband  never  hearing  of 
it,  and  none  but  them  had  a right  to  inquire  into  its  truth.  But 
if  such  a scheme  was  really  contrived,  woe  be  to  its  fabricator; 
the  pride  and  pomp  of  wealth  can  neither  alleviate  nor  recom- 
pense the  stings  of  conscience.  Much  rather,’  continued  Mrs. 
Duncan,  laying  her  hands  upon  her  children’s  heads  as  they  sat 
at  her  feet — ‘ much  rather  would  I have  my  babes  wander  from 
door  to  door,  to  beg  the  dole  of  charity,  than  live  upon  the  birtL 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


36? 


right  of  the  orphan.  If  Lady  Dunreath,  in  reality,  committed  the 
crime  she  was  accused  of,  she  met,  in  some  degree,  a punishment 
for  it.  Soon  after  the  earl’s  death  she  betrayed  a partiality  for 
a man  every  way  inferior  to  her,  which  partiality,  people  have 
not  scrupled  to  say,  commenced  and  w’as  indulged  to  a criminal 
degree  during  the  lifetime  of  her  husband.  She  would  have  mar 
ri^  him,  had  not  her  daughter,  the  Marchioness  of  Roslin,  inter- 
fered. Proud  and  ambitious,  her  rage  at  the  prospect  of  such  a^,. 
alliance  knew  no  bounds,  and,  seconded  by  the  marquis,  whosr 
disposition  was  congenial  to  her  own,  they  got  the  unfortunate 
mother  into  their  power,  and  hurried  her  otf  to  a convent  in 
France.  I know  not  whether  she  is  yet  living;  indeed,  I believe 
there  are  few  either  know  or  care,  she  was  so  much  disliked  for  her 
haughty  disposition.  I have  sometimes  asked  my  aunt  about  her, 
but  she  would  never  gratify  my  curiosity.  She  has  been  brought 
up  in  the  family,  and  no  doubt  thinks  herself  bound  to  conceal 
whatever  they  choose.  She  lives  in  ease  and  plenty,  and  is  abso- 
lute mistress  of  the  few  domestics  that  reside  c^t  the  Abbey.  But  of 
those  domestics  I caution  you  in  time,  or  they  will  be  apt  to  fill 
your  head  with  frightful  stories  of  the  Abbey,  which  sometimes, 
if  one’s  spirits  are  weak,  in  spite  of  reason,  will  make  an  impres- 
sion on  the  mind.  They  pretend  that  the  Earl  of  Dunreath’s  first 
wife  haunts  the  Abbej",  venting  the  most  piteous  moans,  whick 
they  ascribe  to  grief  for  the  unfortunate  fate  of  her  daughter,  and 
that  daughter’s  children  being  deprived  of  their  rightful  patri- 
mony. I honestly  confess,  when  at  the  Abbey  a few  years  ago^ 
during  some  distresses  of  my  husband,  I heard  strange  noises  one 
evening  at  twilight  as  I walked  in  a gallery.  I told  my  aunt  of 
them,  and  she  was  quite  angry  at  the  involuntary  terror  I ex- 
pressed, and  said  it  was  nothing  but  the  wind  whistling  through 
some  adjoining  galleries  which  I heard.  But  this,  my  dear  Fanny, 
said  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  on  account  of  her  children  had  contin- 
ued the  latter  part  of  her  discourse  in  a low  voice,  ‘ is  all  between 
ourselves ; for  my  aunt  declared  she  would  never  pardon  my  men- 
tioning my  ridiculous  fears,  or  the  yet  more  ridiculous  fears  of 
the  servants,  to  any  human  being.’ 

Amanda  listened  in  silence  to  Mrs.  Duncan’s  discourse,  fearful 
that  if  she  spoke  she  should  betray  the  emotions  it  excited. 

They  at  last  entered  between  the  mountains  that  inclosed  tlie 
valley  in  which  the  Abbey  stood.  The  scene  was  solemn  and 
solitary.  Every  prospect,  except  one  of  the  sea,  seen  through  an 
aperture  in  one  of  the  mountains,  was  excluded.  Some  of  these 
mountains  were  bare,  craggy,  and  projecting.  Others  were  skirted 
with  trees,  robed  with  vivid  green,  and  crowned  with  white  and 
yellow  furze.  Some  were  all  a wood  of  intermingled  shades,  and 
others  covered  with  long  and  purple  heath.  Various  streams 


368 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


flowed  from  them  into  the  valley.  Some  stole  gently  down  their 
sides  in  silver  rills,  giving  beauty  and  vigor  wherever  they 
meandered.  Others  tumbled  from  fragment  to  fragment  with 
a noise  not  undelightful  to  the  ear,  and  formed  for  themselves  a 
deep  bed  in  the  valley,  over  which  trees,  that  appeared  coeval 
with  the  building,  bent  their  old  and  leafy  heads. 

At  the  foot  of  what  to  the  rest  was  called  a gently  swelling  hill 
lay  the  remains  of  the  extensive  gardens  which  had  once  given 
the  luxuries  of  the  vegetable  world  to  the  banquets  of  the  Abbey; 
but  the  buildings  which  had  nursed  those  luxuries  were  all  gone 
to  decay,  and  the  gay  plantations  were  overrun  with  the  progeny 
of  neglect  and  sloth. 

The  Abbey  was  one  of  the  most  venerable  looking  buildings 
Amanda  had  ever  beheld ; but  it  was  in  melancholy  grandeur  she 
now  saw  it — in  the  wane  of  its  days,  when  its  glory  was  passed 
away,  and  the  whole  pile  proclaimed  desertion  and  decay.  She 
saw  it  when,  to  use  the  beautiful  language  of  Hutchinson,  its 
pride  was  brought  low,  when  its  magnificence  was  sinking  in 
the  dust,  when  tribulation  had  taken  the  seat  of  hospitality,  and 
solitude  reigned,  where  once  the  jocund  guest  had  laughed  over 
the  sparkling  bowl,  while  the  owls  sang  nightly  their  strains  of 
melancholy  to  the  moonshine  that  slept  upon  its  moldering  bat- 
tlements. 

The  heart  of  Amanda  was  full  of  the  fond  idea  of  her  parents, 
and  the  sigh  of  tender  remembrance  stole  from  it.  ‘ How  little 
Toom,’  thought  she,  ‘should  there  be  in  the  human  heart  for  the 
worldly  pride  which  so  often  dilates  it,  liable  as  all  things  are  to 
change ! the  distress  in  which  the  descendants  of  noble  families 
are  so  often  seen,  the  decline  of  such  families  themselves,  should 
check  the  arrogant  presumption  with  which  so  many  look  for- 
ward to  having  their  greatness  and  prosperity  perpetuated 
through  every  branch  of  their  posterity. 

‘ The  proud  possessors  of  this  Abbey,  surrounded  with  affluence 
and  living  in  its  full  enjoyment,  never  perhaps  admitted  the  idea 
as  at  all  probable,  that  one  of  their  descendants  should  ever  ap- 
proach the  seat  of  her  ancestors,  without  that  pomp  and  elegance 
which  heretofore  distinguished  its  daughters.  Alas ! one  now  ap- 
proaches it  neither  to  display  nor  contemplate  the  pageantry  of 
wealth,  but  meek  and  lowly ; not  to  receive  the  smile  of  love,  or 
the  embrace  of  relatives,  but  afilicted  and  unknown,  glad  to  find 
a shelter,  and  procure  the  bread*  of  dependence,  beneath  its  de- 
caying roof.’ 

Mrs.  Duncan  happily  marked  not  Amanda’s  emotion  as  she 
gazed  upon  the  Abbey.  She  was  busily  employed  in  answering 
her  children’s  questions,  who  wanted  to  know  whether  she"thought 
they  would  be  able  to  climb  un  tb*^  p-reat  big  hills  they  saw. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


369 


The  carriage  at  last  stopped  before  the  Abbey.  Mrs.  Bruce  was 
already  at  the  door  to  receive  them.  She  was  a little,  smart  old 
woman,  and  welcomed  her  niece  and  the  children  with  an  appear- 
ance of  the  greatest  pleasure.  On  Amanda’s  being  presented  to 
her,  she  gazed  steadfastly  in  her  face  a few  minutes,  and  then  ex- 
claimed, ‘Well,  this  is  very  strange;  though  I know  I could 
never  have  seen  this  young  lady  before,  her  face  is  quite  famil- 
iar to  me.  ’ 

The  hall  into  which  they  entered  was  large  and  gloomy,  paved 
with  black  marble,  and  supported  by  pillars,  through  which  the 
arched  doors  that  led  to  various  apartments  w^ere  seen.  Bude  im- 
plements, such  as  the  Caledonians  had  formerly  used  in  war  and 
hunting,  were  ranged  along  the  walls.  Mrs.  Bruce  conducted 
them  into  a spacious  parlor,  terminated  by  an  elegant  saloon. 
This,  she  told  them,  had  once  been  the  banqueting  room.  The 
furniture,  though  faded,  was  still  magnificent,  and  the  windows^ 
though  still  in  the  gothic  style,  from  being  enlarged  considerably 
beyond  their  original  dimensions  afforded  a most  delightful  view 
of  the  domain. 

‘Do  you  know,’  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  ‘this  apartment,  though 
one  of  the  pleasantest  in  the  Abbey  in  point  of  situation,  always 
makes  me  melancholy.  The  moment  I enter  it  I think  of  the  en- 
tertainments once  given  in  it,  and  then  its  present  vacancy  and 
stillness  almost  instantly  reminds  me  that  those  who  partook  of 
these  entertainments  are  now  almost  all  humbled  with  the  dust  ? ^ 
Her  aunt  laughed,  and  said  ‘she  was  very  romantic.’ 

The  solemnity  of  the  Abbey  was  well  calculated  to  heighten  the 
awe  which  stole  upon  the  spirit  of  Amanda  from  her  first  view  of 
it.  No  noise  was  heard  throughout  it,  except  the  hoarse  creaking 
of  the  massy  doors,  as  the  servants  passed  from  one  room  to  an- 
other, adjusting  Mrs.  Duncan's  things,  and  preparing  for  dinner. 
Mrs.  Duncan  was  drawn  into  a corner  of  the  room  by  her  aunt, 
to  converse,  in  a low  voice,  about  family  affairs,  and  the  children 
were  rambling  about  the  hall,  wondering  and  inquiring  about 
everything  they  saw. 

Thus  left  to  herself,  a soft  languor  gradually  stole  over  the  mind 
of  Amanda,  which  was  almost  exhausted  from  the  emotions  it  had 
experienced.  The  murmuring  sound  of  waterfalls,  and  the  buz- 
zing of  the  flies  that  basked  in  the  sunny  rays  which  darted 
through  the  casements,  lulled  her  into  a kind  of  pensive  tranquil- 
lity. 

‘ Am  I really,’  she  asked  herself,  ‘in  the  seat  of  my  ancestors  ? 
Am  I really  in  the  habitation  where  my  mother  was  born — where 
her  irrevocable  vows  were  plighted  to  my  father  ? I am ; and  oh  ! 
within  it  may  I at  last  find  an  asylum  from  the  vices  and  dangers 
of  the  world;  within  it  may  my  sorrowing  spirit  lose  its  agitation. 


S70 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


and  subdue,  if  not  its  afiPections,  at  least  its  murmurs  at  the  dis» 
appointment  of  those  affections.’ 

The  appearance  of  dinner  interrupted  her.  She  made  exertions 
to  overcome  any  appearance  of  dejection,  and  the  conversation,  if 
inot  lively,  was  at  least  cheerful.  After  dinner  Mrs.  Duncan,  who 
had  been  informed  by  Amanda  of  her  predilection  for  old  build- 
ings, asked  her  aunt’s  permission  to  show  her  the  Abbey.  Mrs. 
Bruce  immediately  arose,  and  said  she  would  have  that  pleasure 
herself.  She  accordingly  led  the  way.  Many  of  the  apartments 
yet  displayed  the  sumptuous  taste  of  those  who  had  furnished 
them.  ‘It  is  astonishing  to  me,’  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  ‘that  so 
magnificent  a pile  as  this  should  be  abandoned,  as  I may  say,  by 
its  possessors.  ’ ‘ The  Marquis  of  Roslin’s  castle  is  a more  modern 

structure  than  this,’  said  Mrs.  Bruce,  ‘and  preferred  by  them 
on  that  account. ’ ‘ So,  like  the  family  monument,’  rejoined  Mrs. 

Duncan,  ‘ they  are  merely  satisfied  with  permitting  this  to  stand, 
as  it  may  help  to  transmit  the  marchioness’s  name  to  posterity.’ 
‘ How  far  does  the  Marquis  live  from  this  ? ’ asked  Amanda. 
'‘About  twelve  miles,’  replied  Mrs.  Bruce,  who  did  not  appear 
pleased  with  her  niece’s  conversation,  and  led  the  way  to  a long 
g’allery  ornamented  with  portraits  of  the  family.  This  gallery 
Amanda  knew  well  by  description.  This  was  the  gallery  in  which 
her  father  had  stopped  to  contemplate  the  picture  of  her  mother, 
and  her  heart  throbbed  with  impatience  and  anxiety  to  see  that 
picture. 

Mrs.  Bruce,  as  she  went  before  her,  told  her  the  names  of  the 
different  portraits.  She  suddenly  stopped  before  one.  ‘That,’ 
cried  she,  ‘is  the  Marchioness  of  Roslin’s,  drawn  for  her  when 
Lady  Augusta  Dunreath.’  Amanda  cast  her  eyes  upon  it,  and 
perceived  in  the  countenance  the  same  haughtiness  as  still  distin- 
guished the  marchioness.  She  looked  at  the  next  panel,  and  found 
it  empty. 

‘ The  picture  of  Lady  Malvina  Dunreath  hung  there,’  said  Mrs. 
Bruce ; ‘ but  after  her  unfortunate  marriage  it  was  taken  down. 
‘And  destroyed,’  exclaimed  Amanda  mournfully,  ‘No;  but  it 
was  thrown  into  the  old  chapel,  where,  with  the  rest  of  the  lum- 
ber [the  soul  of  Amanda  was  struck  at  these  words],  it  has  been 
locked  up  for  years.’  ‘ And  is  it  impossible  to  see  it  ? ’ asked 
Amanda.  ‘ Impossible,  indeed,’  replied  Mrs.  Bruce.  ‘The chapel 
and  the  whole  eastern  part  of  the  Abbey  have  long  been  in  a 
ruinous  situation,  on  which  account  it  has  been  locked  up.’  ‘ This 
is  the  gallery,’  whispered  Mrs.  Duncan,  ‘in  which  I heard  the 
strange  noises;  but  not  a word  of  them  to  my  aunt.’  Amanda 
could  scarcely  conceal  the  disappointment  she  felt  at  finding  she 
could  not  see  her  mother’s  picture.  She  would  have  entreated  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  SYI 

chapel  might  be  opened  for  that  purpose,  had  she  not  feared  ex- 
citing suspicions  by 'doing  so. 

They  returned  from  the  gallery  to  the  parlor;  and  in  the  course 
of  conversation  Amanda  heard  many  interesting  anecdotes  of  her 
ancestor's  from  Mrs.  Bruce.  Her  m^/ther  was  also  mentioned,  and 
Mrs.  Bruce,  by  dwelling  on  her  worth,  made  amends,  in  some  de- 
gree, to  Amanda  for  having  called  her  picture  lumber.  She  re 
tired  to  her  chamber  with  her  mind  at  once  softened  and  ele- 
vated by  hearing  of  her  mother’s  virtues.  She  called  upon  her 
father’s  spirit,  upon  them  whose  kindred  souls  were  reunited  in 
heaven,  to  bless  their  child,  to  strengthen,  to  support  her  in  the 
thorny  path  marked  out  for  her  to  take ; nor  to  cease  their  tute- 
lary care  till  she  was  joined  to  them  by  Providence. 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

Such  on  the  ground  the  fading  rose  we  see. 

By  some  rude  blast  torn  from  the  parent  tree! 

The  daffodil  so  leans  his  languid  head, 

Newly  mown  down  upon  his  grassy  bed  I— Lee. 

Experience  convinced  Amanda  that  the  change  in  her  situa- 
tion was,  if  possible,  more  pleasing  than  she  expected  it  would  be. 
Mrs.  Duncan  was  the  kindest  and  most  attentive  of  friends. 
Mrs.  Bruce  was  civil  and  obliging,  and  her  little  pupils  were  doc- 
ile and  affectionate.  Could  she  have  avoided  retrospection,  she 
would  have  been  happy;  but  the  remembrance  of  past  events  was 
too  deeply  impressed  upon  her  mind  to  be  erased;  it  mingled  in 
the  visions  of  the  night,  in  the  avocations  of  the  day,  and  in  the 
meditations  of  her  lonely  hours,  forcing  from  her  heart  the  signs 
of  regret  and  tenderness.  Her  mornings  were  devoted  to  her 
pupils,  and  in  the  evenings  she  sometimes  walked  with  Mrs.  Dun- 
can, sometimes  read  aloud  while  she  and  her  aunt  were  working  ; 
but  whenever  they  were  engaged  in  chatting  about  family  affairs, 
or  at  a game  of  piquet — which  was  often  the  case,  as  Mrs.  Bruce 
neither  loved  walking  nor  working — she  always  took  that  oppor- 
tunity of  retiring  from  the  room,  and  either  rambled  through  the 
dark  and  intricate  windings  of  the  Abbey,  or  about  the  grounds 
contiguous  to  it.  She  sighed  whenever  she  passed  the  chapel 
which  contained  the  picture  of  her  mother ; it  was  in  a ruinous 
condition,  but  a thick  foliage  of  ivy  partly  hid  while  it  proclaimed 
its  decay;  the  windows  were  broken  in  many  places,  but  all  too 
high  to  admit  the  possibility  of  her  gaining  admittance  through 
them,  and  the  door  was  strongly  secured  by  massy  bars  of  iron,  as 
was  every  door  which  had  a communication  with  the  eastern  part 
onhe  Abbey.  A fortnight  passed  away  at  the  Abbey  without  any 


S72 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


thing  happening  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  which  reigned  in  it. 
No  one  approached  it  except  a few  of  the  wandering  children  oi 
poverty,  and  its  inhabitants  seemed  perfectly  content  with  their 
seclusion  from  the  world.  Amanda,  by  Mrs.  Duncan’s  desire,  had 
wold  Mrs.  Dermot  to  direct  her  letters  to  a town  about  five  miles 
irom  the  Abbey ; thither  a man  went  every  day,  but  constantly 
returned  without  one  for  her. 

‘ Why,’  she  asked  herself,  ‘ this  anxiety  for  a letter,  this  disap- 
pointment at  not  receiving  one,  when  I neither  expect  to  hear 
anything  interesting  nor  agreeable  ? Mrs.  Dermot  has  already 
said  she  had  no  means  of  hearing  about  Lord  Mortimer ; and,  even 
if  she  had,  why  should  I desire  such  intelligence,  torn  as  I am 
from  him  forever  ? ’ 

At  the  expiration  of  another  week  an  incident  happened  which 
again  destroyed  the  composure  of  our  heroine.  Mrs.  Bruce  one 
morning  hastily  entered  the  room,  where  she  and  Mrs.  Duncan 
were  sitting  with  the  little  girls,  and  begged  they  would  not  stir 
from  it  till  she  had  told  them  to  do  so,  as  the  Marquis  of  Eoslin’s 
steward  was  below  stairs,  and  if  he  knew  of  their  residence  at  the 
Abbey,  she  was  confident  he  would  reveal  it  to  his  lord,  which 
she  had  no  doubt  would  occasion  her  own  dismission  from  it. 
The  ladies  assured  her  they  would  not  leave  the  apartment,  and 
she  retired,  leaving  them  astonished  at  the  agitation  she  betrayed. 

In  about  two  hours  she  returned,  and  said  she  came  to  release 
them  from  confinement,  as  the  steward  had  departed.  ‘He  has 
brought  unexpected  intelligence,  ’ said  she ; ‘ the  marquis  and  his 
family  are  coming  down  to  the  castle.  The  season  is  so  far  ad- 
vanced, I did  not  suppose  they  would  visit  it  till  next  summer 
I must,  therefore,’  continued  she,  addressing  her  niece,  ‘send  to 
the  neighboring  town  to  procure  lodgings  for  you  till  the  family 
leave  the  country,  as  no  doubt  some  of  them  will  come  to  the 
Abbey ; and  to  find  you  in  it  would,  I can  assure  you,  be  attended 
with  unpleasant  consequences  tome.’ 

Mrs.  Duncan  begged  she  would  not  suffer  the  least  uneasiness 
on  her  account,  and  proposed  that  very  day  leaving  the  Abbey. 

‘ No,’  Mrs.  Bruce  replied,  ‘ there  is  no  necessity  for  quitting  it  for 
a few  days  longer;  the  family,’  continued  she,  ‘ are  coming  down 
upon  a joyful  occasion,  to  celebrate  the  nuptials  of  the  marquis’s 
daughter.  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland.  ’ ‘ Lady  Euphrasia’s  nup- 

tials ! ’ exclaimed  Amanda,  in  an  agitated  voice,  and  forgetting 
her  own  situation.  ‘ To  whom  is  she  going  to  be  married  ? ’ ‘To 
Lord  Mortimer,  ’ Mrs.  Bruce  replied,  ‘ the  Earl  of  Cherbury ’s  only 
son ; a very  fine  young  man.  I am  told  the  affair  has  been  long 

talked  of ; but ’ Here  she  was  interrupted  by  a deep  sigh,  or 

rather  groan,  from  the  unfortunate  Amanda,  who  at  the  same 
moment  fell  back  in  her  chair,  pale  and  without  motion.  Mrs. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


37^ 


Duncan  screamed  out,  and  flew  to  her  assistance.  Mrs.  Bruce, 
equally  frightened,  though  less  affected,  ran  for  restoratives, 
and  the  children  clasped  her  knees  and  wept.  From  her  pensive 
look  and  manner  Mrs.  Duncan  suspected,  from  their  first  acquaint- 
ance, that  her  heart  had  experienced  a disappointment  of  the  tender- 
est  nature.  Her  little  girls,  too,  had  told  her  that  they  had  seen  Miss 
Donald  crying  over  a picture.  Her  suspicions  concerning  such 
a disappointment  were  now  confirmed  by  the  sudden  emotion  and 
illness  of  Amanda.  But  she  had  all  the  delicacy  which  belongs 
to  true  sensibility,  and  determined  never  to  let  Amanda  know  she 
conjectured  the  source  of  her  sorrows,  certain  as  she  was  that  they 
had  never  originated  from  any  misconduct. 

Mrs.  Bruce’s  drops  restored  Amanda's  senses ; but  she  felt  weak 
and  trembling,  and  begged  she  might  be  supported  to  her  room,  to 
lie  down  on  the  bed.  Mrs.  Bruce  and  Mrs.  Duncan  accordingly 
led  her  to  it.  The  former  almost  immediately  retired,  and  the 
tears  of  Amanda  now  burst  forth.  She  wept  a long  time  without 
intermission ; and  as  soon  as  her  sobs  would  permit  her  to  speak, 
begged  Mrs.  Duncan  to  leave  her  to  herself.  Mrs.  Duncan  knew 
too  well  the  luxury  of  secret  grief  to  deny  her  the  enjoyment  of 
so  melancholy  a feast,  and  directly  withdrew. 

The  wretched  Amanda  then  asked  herself,  ‘if  she  had  not 
known  before  that  the  sacrifice  she  made  Lord  Cherbury  would 
lead  to  the  event  she  now  regretted  ? ’ It  was  true  she  did  know 
it.  But  whenever  an  idea  of  its  taking  place  occurred,  she  had  so 
sedulously  driven  it  from  her  mind  that  she  at  last  almost  ceased 
to  think  about  it.  Were  he  to  be  united  to  any  other  woman  than 
Lady  Euphrasia,  she  thought  she  would  not  be  so  wretched. 
‘O  Mortimer,  beloved  of  my  soul!’  she  cried,  ‘were  you  going 
to  be  united  to  a woman  sensible  of  your  worth,  and  worthy  of 
your  noble  heart,  in  the  knowledge  of  your  happiness  my  misery 
would  be  lessened.  But  what  a union  of  misery  must  minds  so 
uncongenial  as  yours  and  Lady  Euphrasia’s  form  I Alas ! am  I 
not  wretched  enough  in  contemplating  my  own  prospect  of  un- 
happiness, but  that  yours,  also,  must  be  obtruded  upon  me  ? Yet 
perhaps,’  she  continued,  ‘ the  evils  that  I dread  on  Lord  Mortimer’s 
account  may  be  averted.  Oh,  that  they  may  1 ’ said  she,  with  fer- 
vor, and  raising  her  hands  and  eyes.  ‘ Soften,  gracious  Heaven  I 
soften  the  flinty  nature  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  Oh,  render  her 
sensible  of  the  blessing  you  bestow  in  giving  her  Lord  Mortimer! 
and  render  her  not  only  capable  of  inspiring,  but  of  feeling  ten- 
derness. May  she  prove  to  him  the  tender  friend,  the  faithful,  the 
affectionate  companion  the  unfortunate  Amanda  would  have 
been ! Oh,  may  she  build  her  happiness  on  his ! and  may  his  be 
great  as  his  virtues — extensive  as  his  charities ; and  may  the  know! 
edge  of  it  soothe  my  afflicted  heart  I ’ 


374 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Her  spirits  were  a little  elevated  by  the  fervency  of  her  Ian 
guage.  But  it  was  a transient  elevation.  The  flush  it  spread 
over  her  cheeks  soon  died  away,  and  her  tears  again  began  to 
flow.  ‘ Alas  1 ’ she  cried,  ‘ in  a few  days  it  will  be  criminal  to 
think  of  Lord  Mortimer  as  I have  hitherto  done  ; and  I shall 
blush,  ’ continued  she,  gazing  at  his  picture,  ‘ to  contemplate 
this  dear  shadow,  when  I reflect  its  original  is  the  husband  of 
Lady  Euphrasia.’ 

The  dinner-bell  now  sounded  through  the  Abbey,  and  almost 
at  the  same  minute  she  heard  a tap  at  her  door.  She  started,  and 
reflected  for  the  first  time  that  her  deep  dejection  would  naturally 
excite  suspicions  as  to  its  source,  if  longer  indulged.  Shocked  at 
xhe  idea  of  incurring  them,  she  hastily  wiped  away  her  tears, 
and  opening  the  door,  found  her  friend  Mrs.  Duncan  at  it,  who 
begged  she  would  come  down  to  dinner.  Amanda  did  not  refuse, 
but  was  obliged  to  use  the  supporting  arm  of  her  friend  to  reach 
the  parlor.  She  could  not  eat.  With  difficulty  could  she  re- 
strain her  tears,  or  answer  the  inquiries  Mrs.  Bruce  made  after 
what  she  supposed  a mere  bodily  indisposition.  She  forced  her- 
self, however,  to  continue  in  the  parlor  till  after  tea,  when,  cards 
being  produced,  she  had  an  opportunity  of  going  out  and  in- 
dulging her  anguish  without  fear  of  interruption.  Unable, 
however,  to  walk  far,  she  repaired  to  the  old  chapel,  and  sitting 
down  by  it,  leaned  her  head  against  its  decayed  and  ivy-covered 
walls.  She  had  scarcely  sat  in  this  manner  a minute  when  the 
stones  gave  way,  with  a noise  which  terrified  her,  and  she  would 
have  fallen  backward  had  she  not  caught  at  some  projecting 
wood.  She  hastily  rose,  and  found  that  the  ivy  entirely  con- 
cealed the  breach.  She  examined  it,  however,  and  perceived  it 
large  enough  to  admit  her  into  the  chapel.  A sudden  pleasure 
pervaded  her  heart  at  the  idea  of  being  able  to  enter  it  and  ex- 
amine the  picture  she  had  so  long  wished  to  behold.  There  was 
nothing  to  oppose  her  entrance  but  the  ivy.  This  she  parted 
with  difficulty,  but  so  as  not  to  strip  it  from  the  wall,  and  after 
•tepping  over  the  fallen  rubbish,  she  found  herself  in  the  body  of 
ne  chapel.  The  silent  hour  of  twilight  was  now  advanced,  but 
:lie  moonbeams  that  darted  through  the  broken  roof  prevented 
the  chapel  from  being  involved  in  utter  darkness.  Already  had 
the  owls  begun  their  strains  of  melancholy  on  its  moldering 
pillars,  while  the  ravens  croaked  among  the  luxuriant  trees  that 
rustled  round  it.  Dusty  and  moth-eaten  banners  were  suspended 
from  the  walls,  and  rusty  casques,  shields,  and  spears  were 
promiscuously  heaped  together — the  useless  armor  of  those  over 
whose  remains  Amanda  now  trod  with  a light  and  trembling 
foot.  She  looked  for  the  picture,  and  perceived  one  reclined 
against  the  wall  near  the  altar.  She  wiped  away  the  dust,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


375 


perceived  this  was  indeed  the  one  she  sought,  the  one  her  father 
Lad  so  often  described  to  her.  The  light  was  too  imperfect  for  her 
to  distinguish  the  features,  and  she  resolved,  if  possible,  to  come 
at  an  earlier  hour  the  ensuing  evening.  She  felt  impressed  with 
reverential  awe  as  she  stood  before  it.  She  recollected  the  pa- 
thetic manner  in  which  her  father  had  mentioned  his  emotion  as 
he  gazed  upon  it,  and  her  tears  began  to  flow  for  the  disastrous 
fate  of  her  parents  and  her  own.  She  sunk  in  an  agony  of  grief, 
which  mournful  remembrances  and  present  calamities  excited, 
upon  the  steps  of  that  altar,  where  Fitzalan  and  Malvina  had 
plighted  their  irrevocable  vows.  She  leaned  her  arm  on  the 
rails,  but  her  face  was  turned  to  the  picture,  as  if  it  could  see  and 
would  pity  her  distress.  She  remained  in  this  situation  till  the 
striking  of  the  Abbey  clock  warned  her  to  depart.  In  goings 
toward  the  entrance  she  perceived  a small  arched  door  at  the 
opposite  side.  As  the  apartments  Lady  Malvina  had  occupied 
were  in  this  part  of  the  building,  she  resolved  on  visiting  them 
before  she  left  the  Abbey,  lest  the  breach  in  the  wall  should  be 
discovered  ere  she  returned  to  it.  She  returned  to  the  parlor  ere 
the  ladies  had  finished  their  game  of  piquet,  and  the  next  even- 
ing, immediately  after  tea,  repaired  to  the  chapel,  leaving  them 
engaged  as  usual  at  cards.  She  stood  a few  minutes  before  it,  to 
see  if  anyone  was  near;  but,  perceiving  no  object,  she  again  en- 
tered it.  She  had  now  sufficient  light  to  examine  the  picture  ; 
though  faded  by  the  damp,  it  yet  retained  that  loveliness  for 
which  its  original  was  so  admired,  and  which  Amanda  had  so 
often  heard  eloquently  descjibed  by  her  father.  She  contem- 
plated it  with  awe  and  pity.  Her  heart  swelled  with  the  emotions 
it  excited,  and  gave  way  to  its  feelings  in  tears.  To  weep  before 
the  shade  of  her  mother  seemed  to  assuage  the  bitterness  of  those 
feelings.  She  pronounced  the  name  of  her  parents,  she  called 
lierself  their  wretched  orphan,  a stranger,  and  a dependent  in  the 
mansion  of  her  ancestors.  She  pronounced  the  name  of  Lord 
Mortimer  in  the  impassioned  accents  of  tenderness  and  distress. 
As  she  thus  indulged  the  sorrows  of  her  soul  in  tears  and  lamen- 
^;ations,  she  suddenly  heard  a faint  noise,  like  an  advancing  foot- 
step, near  her.  She  started  up,  for  she  had  been  kneeling  before 
her  mother’s  picture,  terrified  lest  her  visit  to  the  chapel  had  been 
discovered,  which,  she  knew,  if  the  case,  would  mortally  disoblige 
Mrs.  Bruce,  though  why  she  should  be  so  averse  to  anyone’s 
visiting  it  she  could  not  conceive.  She  listened  in  trembling 
anxiety  a few  minutes.  All  again  was  still,  and  she  returned  to 
the  parlor,  where  she  found  the  ladies  as  she  had  left  them,  deter- 
mined, notwithstanding  her  late  fright,  to  return  the  next  even- 
ing to  the  chapel,  and  visit  the  apartments  that  were  hex 
mother’s. 


376 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER  XLYI. 

What  beckoning  ghost  along  the  moonlight  shade 

Invites  my  steps  ? —Pope. 

The  next  evening  Amanda’s  patience  was  put  to  the  test ; foF 
after  tea  Mrs.  Duncan  proposed  a walk,  which  seemed  to  cut  off 
her  hopes  of  visiting  the  chapel  that  evening  ; but  after  strolling 
some  time  about  the  valley,  complaisance  for  her  aunt  made  Mrs* 
Duncan  return  to  the  parlor,  where  she  was  expected  to  take  her 
usual  hand  at  piquet.  The  hour  was  late,  and  the  sky  so  gloomy 
that  the  moon,  though  at  its  full,  could  scarcely  penetrate  the 
darkness  ; notwithstanding  all  this,  Amanda  resolved  on  going 
to  the  chapel,  considering  this,  in  all  probability,  the  only  oppor- 
tunity she  would  have  of  visiting  the  apartments  her  mother  had 
occupied  (which  she  had  an  irrepre^ible  desire  to  enter),  as  in 
two  days  she  was  to  accompany  Mrs.  Duncan  to  lodgings  in  the 
neighboring  town  ; she  accordingly  said  she  had  a mind  to  walk 
a little  longer.  Mrs.  Bruce  bade  her  beware  of  catching  cold,  and 
Mrs.  Duncan  said  she  was  too  fond  of  solitary  rambles  ; but  no 
opposition  being  made  to  her  intention  she  hurried  to  the  chapel, 
and,  entering  the  little  arched  door,  found  herself  in  a lofty  hall, 
in  the  center  of  which  was  a grand  staircase,  the  whole  enlight- 
ened by  a large  gothic  window  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  She 
ascended  them  with  trepidation,  for  her  footsteps  produced  a hol- 
low echo,  which  added  something  awful  to  the  gloom  that  en- 
veloped her.  On  gaining  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  saw  two  large 
folding  doors  on  either  side,  both  closed.  She  knew  the  direction 
to  take,  and,  by  a small  exertion  of  strength,  pulled  the  one  on 
the  left  side  open  and  perceived  a long  gallery,  which  she  knew 
was  terminated  b}^  the  apartments  she  wanted  to  visit.  Its 
almost  total  darkness,  however,  nearly  conquered  her  wish,  and 
shook  her  resolution  of  proceeding  ; but  ashamed,  even  to  herself, 
to  give  way  to  superstitious  fears,  or  turn  back  without  gratify- 
ing her  inclination  after  going  so  far,  she  advanced  into  the 
gallery,  though  with  a trembling  step,  and  as  she  let  the  door  out 
of  her  hand,  it  shut  to  with  a violence  that  shook  the  whole 
building.  The  gallery  on  one  side  had  a row  of  arched  doors, 
and  on  the  other  an  equal  number  of  windows ; but  so  small, 
and,  placed  so  high,  as  scarcely  to  admit  a ray  of  light.  Amanda’s 
heart  began  to  beat  with  unusual  quickness,  and  she  thought  she 
should  never  reach  the  end  of  the  gallery.  She  at  last  came  to  a 
door;  it  was  closed,  not  fastened  ; she  pushed  it  gently  open,  and 
could  jusi  discern  a spacious  room.  This,  she  supposed,  had  been 
her  mother’s  dressing  room.  The  moonbeams,  as  if  to  aid  hef 
wish  of  examining  it,  suddenly  darted  through  the  casements 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  3T^ 

Cheered  by  the  unexpected  light,  she  advanced  into  the  room  ; 
at  the  upper  end  of  it  something  in  white  attracted  her  notice, 
^he  concluded  it  to  be  the  portrait  of  Lady  Malvina’s  mother,, 
which  she  had  been  informed  hung  in  this  room.  She  went  up 
to  examine  it  ; but  her  horror  may  be  better  conceived  than  de- 
scribed when  she  found  herself  not  by  a picture,  but  by  the  real 
form  of  a woman  with  a death-like  countenance  ! She  screamed 
wildly  at  the  terrifying  specter,  for  such  she  believed  it  to  be, 
and  quick  as  lightning  flew  from  the  room.  Again  was  the  moon 
obscured  by  a cloud,  and  she  involved  in  utter  darkness.  She 
ran  with  such  violence  that,  as  she  reached  the  door  at  the  end 
of  the  gallery,  she  fell  against  it.  Extremely  hurt,  she  had  not 
power  to  move  for  a few  minutes  ; but  while  she  involuntarily 
paused,  she  heard  approaching  footsteps.  Wild  with  terror, 
she  instantly  recovered  her  faculties,  and  attempted  opening  it ; 
but  it  resisted  all  her  efforts.  ‘ Protect  me.  Heaven  ! ’ she  ex- 
claimed, and  at  the  moment  felt  an  icy  hand  upon  hers.  Her 
senses  instantly  receded,  and  she  sunk  to  the  floor.  When  she 
recovered  from  her  insensibility  she  perceived  a glimmering 
light  around  her.  She  opened  her  eyes  with  fearfulness,  but  no 
object  appeared ; and  to  her  great  joy  she  saw  the  door  standing 
open,  and  found  that  the  light  proceeded  from  the  large  window. 
She  instantly  rose  and  descended  the  staircase  with  as  much  haste 
as  her  trembling  limbs  could  make  ; but  again  what  was  her 
horror  when,  on  entering  the  chapel,  the  first  object  she  beheld 
was  the  same  that  had  already  alarmed  her  so  much ! She  made 
a spring  to  escape  through  the  entrance,  but  the  apparition,  with 
a rapidity  equal  to  her  own  glided  before  her,  and  with  a hollow 
voice,  as  she  waved  an  emaciated  hand,  exclaimed,  ‘ Forbear  to 
go.’ 

A deadly  faintness  again  came  over  Amanda  ; she  sunk  upon 
a broken  seat,  and  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes  to  shut  out  the 
frightful  vision. 

‘Lose,’  continued  the  figure,  in  a hollow  voice,  ‘lose  your 
superstitious  fears,  and  in  me  behold  not  an  airy  inhabitant  of  the 
other  world,  but  a sinful,  sorrowing,  and  repentant  woman.’ 

The  terrors  of  Amanda  gave  way  to  this  unexpected  address  ; 
but  he’i*  surprise  was  equal  to  what  these  terrors  had  been  ; she 
withdrew  her  hand,  and  gazed  attentively  on  the  form  before  her. 

* If  my  eye,  if  my  ear  deceives  me  not, 'it  continued,  ‘ you  area 
descendant  of  the  Dunreath  family.  I heard  you  last  night,  when 
you  imagined  no  being  near,  call  yourself  the  unfortunate  orphan 
of  Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan.’  ‘I  am,  indeed,  her  child,’ replied 
Amanda.  ‘ Tell  me,  then,  by  what  means  you  have  been  brought 
hither.  You  called  yourself  a stranger  and  a dependent  in  the 
house  of  your  ancestors.’  ‘ I am  both,'  said  Amanda  ; ‘ my  real 


378 


THE  CHILDEEN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


name  is  concealed,  from  circumstances  peculiarly  distressing,  and 
1 have  been  brought  to  the  Abbey  as  an  instructress  to  two  chil- 
dren related  to  the  person  who  takes  care  of  it.’  ‘ My  prayers  at 
length,’  exclaimed  the  ghastly  figure,  raising  her  hollow  eyes  and 
emaciated  hands — ‘ my  prayers  have  reached  the  Throne  of  Mercy^ 
and,  as  a proof  that  my  repentance  is  accepted,  power  is  given  me 
to  make  reparation  for  the  injuries  I have  committed.  Oh  ! thou,' 
she  cried, turning  to  Amanda,  ‘whose  form  revives  in  my  remem- 
brance  the  youth  and  beauty  blasted  by  my  means,  if  thy  mind 
as  well  as  face,  resembles  Lady  Malvina’s,  thou  wilt,  in  pity  to  my 
sufferings,  forbear  to  reproach  my  crimes.  In  me,  ’ she  continued,, 
‘you  behold  the  guilty  but  contrite  widow  of  the  Earl  of  Dunreath.^ 
Amanda  started.  ‘ Oh,  gracious  Heaven  !’  she  exclaimed,  ‘can 
this  be  possible  ? ’ ‘ Have  you  not  been  taught  to  execrate  my 

name  ?’  asked  the  unhappy  woman.  ‘ Oh,  no  ! ’ replied  Amanda. 
‘ No,’  replied  Lady  Dunreath,  ‘because  your  mother  was  an  angel. 
But  did  she  not  leave  a son  V ‘Yes,’  said  Amanda.  ‘ And  does 
he  live  ? ’ ‘Alas  ! I do  not  know,’  replied  Amanda,  melting  into 
tears  ; ‘ distress  separated  us,  and  he  is  not  more  ignorant  of  my 
destiny  than  I am  of  his.’  ‘ It  is  I,’  exclaimed  Lady  Dunreath^ 
‘ have  been  the  cause  of  this  distress.  It  is  I,  sweet  and  sainted 
Malvina,  have  been  the  cause  of  calamity  to  your  children  ; but^ 
blessed  be  the  wonder-working  hand  of  Providence,  ’she  continued, 
* which  has  given  me  an  opportunity  of  making  some  amends  for 
my  cruelty  and  injustice.  But,’  she  proceeded,  ‘as  I know  the 
chance  which  led  you  to  the  chapel,  I dread  to  detain  you  longer, 
lest  it  should  lead  to  a discovery.  Was  it  known  that  you  saw  me, 
all  my  intentions  would  be  defeated.  Be  secret,  then,  I conjure 
you,  more  on  your  account  than  my  own,  and  let  not  Mrs.  Bruce 
have  the  smallest  intimation  of  what  has  passed  ; but  return  to- 
morrow night,  and  you  shall  receive  from  me  a sacred  deposit, 
which  will,  if  affluence  can  do  it,  render  you  completely  happy. 
In  the  meantime,  do  you  throw  upon  paper  a brief  account  of 
your  life,  that  I may  know  the  incidents  which  so  providentially 
brought  you  to  the  Abbey.’  Amanda  promised  to  obey  her  in 
every  respect,  and  the  unfortunate  woman,  unable  longer  to  speak, 
kissed  her  hand,  and  retired  through  the  little  arched  door. 
Amanda  left  the  chapel  and,  full  of  wonder,  pity,  and  expectation, 
moved  mechanically  to  the  parlor.  Mrs.  Bruce  and  Mrs.  Duncan 
had  just  risen  from  cards,  and  both  were  instantly  struck  with 
her  pallid  and  disordered  looks.  They  inquired  if  she  was  ill. 
Their  inquiries  roused  her  from  a deep  reverie.  She  recollected 
the  danger  of  exciting  suspicions,  and  replied,  ‘ she  was  only  fa- 
tigued with  walking,  and  begged  leave  to  retire  to  her  chamber.^ 
Mrs.  Duncan  attended  her  to  it,  and  would  have  sat  with  her  till 
she  saw  her  in  bed,  had  Amanda  allowed  ; but  it  was  not  her  in' 


THE  CniLDREX  OF  THE  ABBEY 


'Slit 

tention,  indeed,  to  go  to  bed  for  some  time.  When  left  to  herself 
the  surprising*  and  interesting  discovery  she  had  made  had  sa 
agitated  her  that  she  could  scarcely  compose  herself  enough  to  take 
up  a pen  to  narrate  the  particulars  of  her  life,  as  Lady  Dunreath 
iiad  2*equested.  She  sketched  them  in  a brief  yet  hasty  manner, 
sufficiently  strong,  however,  to  interest  the  feelings  of  a sympa- 
thetic heart;  the  tender  and  peculiar  sorrows  of  her  own  she 
omitted;  her  life  was  represented  sufficiently  calamitous,  without 
mentioning  the  incurable  sorrow  which  disappointed  love  had  en- 
tailed upon  it.  She  was  glad  she  had  executed  her  task  with 
iiaste,  as  Mrs.  Duncan  called  upon  her  in  the  course  of  the  next 
day  to  assist  in  packing  for  their  rem(  val  to  the  neighboring  town, 
The  evening  was  far  advanced  ere  s^  e had  an  opportunity  of  re- 
pairing to  the  chapel,  where  she  f und  the  unfortunate  Lady 
Dunreath  resting,  in  an  attitude  of  deep  despondence,  against  the 
rails  of  the  altar. 

Her  pale  and  woe-worn  countenance,  her  emaciated  form,  her 
solitary  situation,  all  inspired  Amanda  with  the  tenderest  com- 
passion, and  she  dropped  a tear  upon  the  cold  and  withered  hand 
which  was  extended  to  hers,  as  she  approached.  ‘ I merit  not  the 
tear  of  pity,’  said  the  unhappy  woman,  ‘ yet  it  casts  a gleam  of 
comfort  on  my  heart  to  meet  with  a being  who  feels  for  its  sorrows. 
But  the  moments  are  precious.’  She  then  led  Amanda  to  the 
altar,  and,  stooping  down,  desired  her  assistance  in  removing  a 
small  marble  flag  beneath  it.  This  being  effected,  with  difficulty, 
Amanda  perceived  an  iron  box,  which  she  also  assisted  in  raising. 
Lady  Dunreath  then  took  a key  from  her  bosom,  with  which  she 
opened  it,  and  took  from  thence  a sealed  paper.  ‘ Receive,’  said 
she,  presenting  it  to  Amanda,  ‘receive  the  will  of  your  grand- 
father, a sacred  dep|:)sit,  intrusted  to  your  care  for  your  brother, 
the  rightful  heir  of 'the  Earl  of  Dunreath.  Oh,  may  its  resto- 
ration, and  my  sincere  repentance,  atone  for  its  long  detention 
and  concealment.  Oh  ! may  the  fortune  it  will  bestow  upon  you, 
as  well  as  your  brother,  be  productive  to  both  of  the  purest  happi- 
aess.’  Trembling  with  joyful  surprise,  Amanda  received  the 
reaper.  Gracious  Heaven  ! ’ exclaimed  she,  ‘ is  it  possible  ? Do 
. ically  hold  the  will  of  my  grandfather — a will  which  will  entitle 
my  brother  to  affluence  ? Oh,  Providence  ! how  mysterious  are 
thy  ways  ! O Oscar,  beloved  of  my  heart/  she  continued,  forget- 
ting at  that  moment  every  consideration  of  self,  ‘ could  thy  sis- 
ter have  possibly  foreseen  her  sorrows  would  have  led  to  such  a 
discovery,  half  their  bitterness  would  have  been  allayed.  Yes,  my 
father,  one  of  thy  children  may  at  least  be  happy,  and  in  witness- 
jLxig  that  happiness  the  other  will  find  a mitigation  of  misery.’ 
1 ears  burst  from  her  as  she  spoke,  and  relieved  the  strong  erno 
ti  ms  that  swelled  her  heart,  almost  to  bursting. 


380 


THE  CHILDEEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


‘ Oh  ! talk  not  of  your  misery,’  said  Lady  Dunreath,  with  a con-= 
vulsive  sigh,  ‘ lest  you  drive  me  to  despair.  Forever  must  I ac- 
cuse myself  of  being  the  real  source  of  calamity  to  Lady  Malvina 
and  her  children.’  ‘ Excuse  me,  ’ cried  Amanda,  wiping  her  eyes, 
‘ I should  be  ungrateful  to  Heaven  and  to  you  if  I dwelt  upon  my 
sorrows  ; but  let  me  not  neglect  this  opportunity,’  she  continued, 
‘ of  inquiring  if  there  is  any  way  in  which  I can  possibly  serve 
you.  Is  there  no  friend  to  whom  I could  apply  in  your  name,  to 
have  you  released  from  this  cruel  and  unjustifiable  confinement  ? ’ 
* No,’  said  Lady  Dunreath,  ‘ no  such  friend  exists.  When  I had 
the  power  to  do  so,  I never  conciliated  friendship  ; and  if  I am 
still  remembered  in  the  woFd,  it  is  only  with  contempt  and  ab- 
horrence. The  laws  of  my  country  would  certainly  liberate  me 
at  once  ; but  if  things  turn  - ut  as  I expect,  there  will  be  no  occa- 
sion for^an  application  to  them,  and  any  step  of  that  kind  at  pres- 
ent might  be  attended  with  the  most  unpleasant  consequences. 
Your  future  prosperity,  my  present  safety,  all  depend  on  secrecy 
for  a short  period.  In  this  paper  [drawing  one  from  her  pocket 
and  presenting  it  to  Amanda]  I have  explained  my  reason  for  de- 
siring such  secrecy.’  Amanda  put  it  with  the  will  into  her  bosom, 
and  gave  in  return  the  little  narrative  she  had  sketched.  They 
both  assisted  in  replacing  the  box  and  flag,  and  then  seated  them- 
selves on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  Amanda  informed  Lady  Dun- 
reath of  her  intended  departure  the  next  day  from  the  Abl>ey,  and 
the  occasion  of  it.  Lady  Dunreath  expressed  the  utmost  impa- 
tience to  have  everything  put  in  a proper  train  for  the  avowal  of 
the  will,  declaring  that  the  sight  of  the  rightful  heir  in  possession 
of  the  Abbey  would  calm  the  agitations  of  a spirit  which,  she  be- 
lieved, would  soon  forsake  its  earthly  habitation.  Tears  of  com- 
passion fell  from  Amanda  at  these  words,  and  she  shuddered  to 
think  that  the  unfortunate  woman  might  die  abandoned,  and  be- 
reft of  comfort.  Again  she  urged  her  to  think  of  some  expedient 
for  procuring  immediate  liberty,  and  again  Lady  Dunreath  assured 
her  it  was  impossible.  Absorbed  in  a kind  of  sympathetic  melan- 
choly, they  forgot  the  danger  of  delay  till  the  Abbey  clock  chiming 
half  an  hour  past  ten — which  was  later  than  Mrs.  Bruce’s  usual 
hour  of  supper— startled  and  alarmed  them  both.  ‘ Go ! go ! ’ cried 
Lady  Dunreath,  with  a wild  expression  of  fear  ; ‘go!  or  we  are 
undone  !’  Amanda  pressed  her  hand  in  silence,  and,  trembling, 
departed  from  the  chapel.  She  stopped  at  the  outside  to  listen  ; 
for  by  her  ear  alone  could  she  now  receive  any  intimation  of  dan- 
ger, as  the  night  was  too  dark  to  permit  any  object  to  be  dis- 
cerned ; but  the  breeze  sighing  among  the  trees  of  the  valley,  and 
the  melancholy  murmur  of  waterfalls,  were  the  only  sounds  she 
heard.  She  groped  along  the  walls  of  the  chapel  to  keep  in  the 
path,  v/hich  wound  from  it  to  the  entrance  of  the  Abbe,y,  and  in 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


381 


doing*  so  passed  her  hand  over  the  cold  face  of  a human  bein^. 
Terrified,  an  involuntary  scream  burst  from  her.  and  she  faintly, 
articulated  : ‘ Defend  me,  Heaven  ! ’ In  the  next  moment  she 
was  seized  round  the  waist,  and  her  senses  were  receding,  when 
Mrs.  Duncan’s  voice  recalled  them.  She  apologized  to  Amanda 
for  giving  her  such  a fright  ; but  said,  ‘ that  her  uneasiness  was 
so  great  at  her  long  absence  that,  attended  by  a servant,  she  had 
come  ill  quest  of  her.’ 

Mrs.  Duncan’s  voice  relieved  Amanda  from  the  horror  of  think- 
ing she  had  met  with  a person  who  would  insult  her  ; but  it  had 
-given  rise  to  a new  alarm.  She  feared  she  had  been  traced  to  the 
chapel,  that  her  discourse  with  Lady  Dunreath  had  been  over- 
heard, and  of  course  the  secret  of  the  will  discovered,  and  that 
Mrs.  Duncan,  amiable  as  she  was,  might  sacrifice  friendship  to 
interest  and  consanguinity.  This  idea  overwhelmed  her  with 
anguish  ; her  deep  and  heavy  sighs,  her  violent  trembling, 
alarmed  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  hastily  called  the  servant  to  assist 
her  in  supporting  Amanda  home  ; drops  were  then  administered, 
but  they  would  have  wanted  their  usual  efficacy  with  the  poor 
night  wanderer, had  she  not  soon  been  convinced  by  Mrs.  Duncan’s 
manner  she  had  not  made  the  dreaded  discovery. 

Amanda  would  have  retired  to  her  chamber  before  supper,  but 
that  she  feared  distressing  Mrs.  Duncan  by  doing  so,  who  would 
have  imputed  her  indisposition  to  her  fright.  She  accordingly 
remained  in  the  parlor,  but  with  a mind  so  occupied  by  the  inter- 
esting events  of  the  evening  that  she  soon  forgot  the  purpose  for 
which  she  sat  down  to  table,  and  neither  heeded  what  was  doing 
or  saying.  From  this  reverie  she  was  suddenly  roused  by  the 
sound  of  a name  forever  dear  and  precious,  which  in  a moment 
had  power  to  recall  her  wandering  ideas.  She  raised  her  eyes, 
and  with  a sad  intentness  fixed  them  on  Mrs.  Bruce,  who  con- 
tinued to  talk  of  the  approaching  nuptials  of  Lord  Mortimer. 
Tears  now  fell  from  Amanda  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  restrain 
them,  and  while  drooping  her  head  to  wipe  them  away,  she  caught 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Duncan  fastened  on  her  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  pity  and  curiosity.  A deep  crimson  suffused  the  face  of 
Amanda,  at  the  consciousness  of  having  betrayed  the  secret  of 
her  heart  ; but  her  confusion  was  inferior  to  her  grief,  and  the 
rich  suffusion  of  the  one  soon  gave  place  to  the  deadly  hue  of  the 
other.  ‘ Ah ! ’ thought  she,  ‘ what  is  now  the  acquisition  of 
wealth,  when  happiness  is  beyond  my  reach ! ’ Yet  scarcely  had 
she  conceived  the  thought  ere  she  wished  it  buried  in  oblivion. 

‘ Is  the  comfort  of  independence,  the  power  of  dispensing 
ness  to  others,  nothing  ? ’ she  asked  herself.  ‘ Do  they  not  merit 
gratitude  of  the  most  pure  thankfulness,  of  the  most  fervent 
nature  to  Providence  ? They  do,’  she  cried,  and  paid  them  at  the 


'3S2 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


moment  by  the  silence  of  her  heart.  It  was  late  ere  the  ladies 
separated  for  the  night,  and  as  soon  as  Amanda  had  secured  the 
door  of  her  chamber,  she  drew  from  her  bosom  the  papers  sc 
carefully  d€|)osited  there,  and  sat  down  to  peruse  the  narrative  of 
Lady  Dundreath. 

CHAPTER  XLVII, 

For  true  repentance  never  comes  too  late  ; 

As  soon  as  born  she  makes  herself  a shroud. 

The  weeping  mantle  of  a fleecy  Cioud, 

And  swift  as  thought  her  airy  lourney  takes, 

Her  hand  Heaven’s  azure  gate  with  trembling  strikes. 

The  stars  do  with  amazement  on  her  look  ; 

She  tells  her  story  in  so  sad  a tone 

That  angels  start  from  bliss,  and  give  a groan.— Le^. 

Narrative  of  Lady  Dunreath. 

Adoring  the  Power  who  has  given  me  means  of  making  resti- 
tution for  my  injustice,  I take  up  my  pen  to  disclose  to  your  view, 
oh!  lovely  orphan  of  the  injured  Malvina,  the  frailties  of  a heart 
which  has  long  been  tortured  with  the  retrospect  of  past  and  the 
pressure  of  present  evil.  Convinced,  as  I have  already  said,  that 
if  your  mind,  as  well  as  form,  resembles  your  mother’s,  you  will, 
while  you  condemn  the  sinner,  commiserate  the  penitent,  and, 
touched  by  that  penitence,  offer  up  a prayer  to  Heaven  (and  the 
prayers  of  innocence  are  ever  availing)  for  its  forgiveness  unto 
me.  Many  years  are  now  elapsed  since  the  commencement  of 
my  confinement,  years  which  diminished  my  hope  of  being  able 
to  make  reparation  for  the  injustice  and  cruelty  I had  done  Lady 
Malvina  Fitzalan,  but  left  unabated  by  my  desire  of  doing  so. 

Ah ! sweet  Malvina ! from  thy  soft  voice  I was  doomed  never 
to  hear  my  pardon  pronounced  ; but  from  thy  child  I may,  per- 
haps, have  it  accorded  ; if  so,  from  that  blissful  abode  where  thoj 
now  enjoyest  felicity,  if  the  departed  souls  of  the  happy  an 
allowed  to  view  the  transactions  of  this  world,  thine,  I am  con- 
vinced, will  behold,  with  benignancy  and  compassion,  the  wretch 
who  covers  herself  with  shame  to  atone  for  her  injuries  to  thee. 
But  I must  restrain  these  effusions  of  my  heart,  lest  I encroach 
too  much  upon  the  limited  time  allotted  to  make  what  I may  call 
my  confession,  and  inform  you  of  particulars  necessary  to  be 
known. 

My  cruelty  and  insolence  to  Lady  Malvina  you  no  doubt  already 
know.  In  my  conduct  to  her  I forgot  the  obligations  her  mother 
had  conferred  upon  me,  whose  patronage  and  kind  protection 
laid  the  foundation  of  my  prosperity.  I rejoiced  at  her  marriage 
with  Captain  Fitzalan,  as  a step  that  would  deprive  her  of  her 
fetr  er’s  t-? vor,  and  place  her  in  that  state  of  poverty  which  would 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


38a 


conceal  charms  I detested  for  being  superior  to  my  daughter's. 
The  earl’s  resentment  was  violent  at  first  ; but  with  equal  surprise 
and  concern  I so6n  perceived  it  gradually  subsiding.  The  irrev- 
ocableness of  the  deed,  the  knowledge  that  he  wanted  no  acqui- 
sition of  fortune,  above  all,  Fitzalan’s  noble  descent,  and  the 
graces  and  virtues  he  possessed,  worthy  of  the  highest  station, 
dwelt  upon  the  earl’s  imagination,  and  pleaded  strongly  in  ex- 
tenuation of  his  daughter.  Alarmed  lest  my  schemes  against  her 
should  be  rendered  abortive,  like  an  evil  spirit,  I contrived  to  re- 
kindle, by  means  of  my  agents,  the  earl’s  resentment.  They 
represented  the  flagrant,  the  daring  contempt  Lady  Malvina  had 
shown  to  paternal  authority,  and  that  too  easy  a forgiveness  of  it 
might  influence  her  sister  to  similar  conduct  with  a person  per- 
haps less  worthy,  and  more  needy,  if  possible,  than  Fitzalan. 
This  last  suggestion  had  the  desired  effect,  and  Lady  Malvina  he 
declared  in  future  should  be  considered  as  an  alien  to  his  family. 

I now  hoped  my  ambitious  views,  relative  to  my  daughter^ 
would  be  accomplished.  I had  long  wished  her  united  to  the 
Marquis  of  Roslin  ; but  he  had  for  years  been  Lady  Malvina’s 
admirer,  and  was  so  much  attached  to  her,  that  on  her  marriage 
he  went  abroad.  My  arts  were  then  tried  to  prevail  on  the  earl 
to  make  a will  in  Lady  Augusta’s  favor  ; but  this  was  a point  I 
could  not  accomplish,  and  I lived  in  continual  apprehension  lest 
his  dying  intestate  should  give  Lady  Malvina  the  fortune  I 
wanted  to  deprive  her  of.  Anxious,  however,  to  procure  a 
splendid  establishment  for  my  daughter,  I everywhere  said  there 
was  no  doubt  but  she  would  be  sole  heiress  to  the  earl.  At  the 
expiration  of  three  years  the  marquis  returned  to  his  native 
country.  His  unfortunate  passion  was  subdued  ; he  heard  and 
believed  the  reports  I circulated,  and  stimulated  by  avarice,  his 
leading  propensity,  offered  his  hand  to  my  daughter  and  was 
accepted.  The  earl  gave  her  a large,  portion  in  ready  money  ; 
but,  notwithstanding  all  my  endeavors,  would  not  make  a settle- 
ment of  any  of  his  estates  upon  her.  I,  however,  still  hoped,  anc. 
the  marquis,  from  what  I said,  believed  that  she  would  possess 
all  his  fortune.  My  daughter’s  nuptials  added  to  my  natural 
haughtiness.  They  also  increased  my  love  of  pleasure,  by  afford- 
ing me  more  amply  the  means  of  gratifying  it  at  the  sumptuous 
entertainments  at  the  marquis’  castle.  Engaged  continually  in 
them,  the  earl,  whose  infirmities  confined  him  to  the  Abbey,  was 
left  to  solitude  and  the  care  of  his  domestics.  My  neglect,  you 
will  say,  was  impolitic  while  I had  any  point  to  carry  with  him  ; 
but  Providence  has  so  wisely  ordained  it  that  vice  should  still 
defeat  itself.  Had  I always  acted  in  uniformity  with  the  tender- 
ness I once  showed  the  earl,  I have  little  doubt  but  what  at  last  I 
should  have  prevailed  on  him  to  act  as  I pleased  ; but,  infatuated 


384 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


by  pleasure,  my  prudence,  no — it  deserves  not  such  an  appella- 
tion— forsook  me.  Tlioug-h  the  earl's  body  was  a prey  to  the  in° 
firmities  of  age,  his  mind  knew  none  of  its  nmbecilities,  and 
he  sensibly  felt  and  secretly  resented  my  neglect.  The  more  he 
reflected  on  it,  the  more  he  contrasted  it  with  the  attention  ho 
was  accustomed  to  receive  from  his  banished  Malvina,  and  th6 
resentment  I had  hitherto  kept  alive  in  his  mind  against  her 
gradually  subsided,  so  that  he  was  well  prepared  to  give  a favor- 
able reception  to  the  little  innocent  advocate  she  sent  to  plead  her 
cause.  My  terror,  my  dismay,  when  I surprised  the  little  Oscar  at 
the  knee  of  his  grandfather,  are  not  to  be  described.  The  tears  which 
the  agitated  parent  shed  upon  the  infant’s  lovely  cheek  seemed  to 
express  aftection  for  its  mother,  and  regret  for  his  rigor  to  her. 
Yet  amid  those  tears  I thought  I perceived  an  exulting  joy  as 
he  gazed  upon  the  child,  which  seemed  to  say,  ‘ Thou  wilt  yet  be 
the  pride,  the  prop,  the  ornament,  of  my  ancient  house.’  After 
circumstances  proved  I was  right  in  my  interpretation  of  his 
looks.  I drove  the  little  Oscar  from  the  room  with  frantic  rage. 
The  earl  was  extremely  affected.  He  knew  the  violence  of  my 
temper,  and  felt  too  weak  to  enter  into  any  altercation  with  me. 
He  therefore  reserved  his  little  remaining  strength  and  spirits  to 
arrange  his  affairs,  and  by  passiveness  seemed  yielding  to  my 
sway  ; but  I soon  found,  though  silent,  he  was  resolute. 

My  preventing  your  brother  from  again  gaining  access  to  his 
grandfather,  and  my  repulsing  your  mother  when  she  requested 
an  interview  with  the  earl,  I suppose  you  already  know.  Gracious 
Heaven  ! my  heart  sickens,  even  at  this  remote  period,  when  I 
reflect  on  the  night  I turned  her  from  her  paternal  home — from 
that  mansion  under  whose  roof  her  benevolent  mother  had 
sheltered  my  tender  years  from  the  rude  storms  of  adverse  life. 
Oh,  black  and  base  ingratitude  ! dire  return  for  the  benefits  I had 
received  ; yet,  almost  at  the  very  instant  I committed  so  cruel 
an  action,  she  was  avenged.  No  language  can  describe  my 
horrors,  as  conscience  represented  to  me  the  barbarity  of  my  con- 
duct. I trembled  with  involuntary  fears.  Sounds  had  power  to 
terrify.  Every  blast  which  shook  the  Abbey  (and  dreadful  was 
the  tempest  of  that  night)  made  me  shrink  as  if  about  to  meet 
with  an  instantaneous  punishment. 

I trembled  at  my  undivulged  crimes 

Unwhipped  of  justice 

I knew  the  earl  expected  either  to  see  or  hear  from  your 
mother.  He  was  ignorant  of  the  reception  she  had  met  from  me, 
and  I was  determined,  if  possible,  he  should  continue  so.  As 
soon  as  certified  of  Lady  Malvina’s  departure  from  the  neighbor- 
jhood  of  the  Abbey,  I contrived  a letter  in  Captain  Fitzalan’s 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  880 

name  to  the  earl,  filled  with  the  most  cutting*  and  insolent  re* 
proaches  to  him  for  his  conduct  to  his  daughter,  and  imputing 
her  precipitate  departure  from  Scotland  to  it.  These  unjust  re- 
proaches, I trusted,  would  irritate  the  earl,  and  work  another 
revolution  in  his  mind ; but  1 was  disappointed.  He  either  be- 
lieved the  letter  a forgery,  or  else  resolved  the  children  should 
not  suffer  for  the  fault  of  the  parent.  He  accordingly  sent  for  his 
agent,  an  eminent  lawyer  in  one  of  the  neighboring  towns. 
This  man  was  lately  deceased,  but  his  son,  bred  to  his  profession, 
obeyed  the  summons  to  the  Abbey.  I dreaded  his  coming  ; but 
scarcely  had  I seen  him,  ere  this  dread  was  lost  in  emotions  till 
then  unknown.  A soft,  a tender,  an  ardent  passion  took  posses- 
sion of  my  heart,  on  beholding  a man,  in  the  very  prime  of  life, 
adorned  with  every  natural  and  acquired  grace  that  could  please 
the  eye  and  ear.  Married  at  an  early  period,  possessed  of  all  the 
advantages  of  art,  said  and  believing  myself  to  be  handsome,  I 
flattered  myself  I might  on  his  heart  make  an  impression  equal  to 
that  he  had  done  on  mine.  If  so,  I thought  how  easily  could  the 
earl's  intentions  in  favor  of  his  daughter  be  defeated,  for  that 
love  will  readily  make  sacrifices  I had  often  heard.  A will  was 
made,  but  my  new  ideas  and  schemes  divested  me  of  uneasiness 
about  it.  Melross  continued  at  the  Abbey  much  longer  than 
he  need  have  done,  and,  when  he  left  it,  his  absence  was  of  short 
continuance.  The  earl’s  business  was  his  pretext  for  his  long  and 
frequent  visits.  But  the  real  motive  of  them  he  soon  discovered 
to  me,  encouraged,  no  doubt,  by  the  partiality  I betrayed. 

I shall  not  dwell  upon  this  part  of  my  story  ; but  I completed 
my  crime  by  violating  my  conjugal  fidelity,  and  we  entered  into 
an  engagement  to  be  united  whenever  I was  at  liberty,  which, 
from  the  infirm  state  of  the  earl,  I now  believed  would  shortly 
be  the  case.  In  consequence  of  this,  Melross  agreed  to  put  into 
my  hands  the  earl’s  will,  which  had  been  intrusted  to  his  care, 
and,  he  acknowledged,  drawn  up  entirely  in  favor  of  Lady  Mal- 
vina Fitzalan  and  her  offspring.  It  was  witnessed  by  friends  of 
his,  whom  he  had  no  doubt  of  bribing  to  silence.  You  may 
wonder  that  the  will  was  not  destroyed  as  soon  as  I had  it  in  my 
possession.  But  to  do  so  never  was  my  intention.  By  keeping 
it  in  my  hands,  I trusted  I should  have  a power  over  my  daughter 
which  duty  and  affection  had  never  yet  given  me.  Violent  and 
imperious  in  her  disposition,  I doubted  not  but  she  and  the  mar- 
quis, who  nearly  resembled  her  in  these  particulars,  would  en- 
deavor to  prevent,  from  pride  and  selfishness,  my  union  with 
Melross.  But  to  know  they  were  in  my  power  would  crush  all 
opposition,  I supposed,  and  obtain  their  most  flattering  notice  for 
him — a notice,  from  my  pride,  I found  essential  to  my  tranquillity. 
The  earl  requested  Melross  to  inquire  about  Lady  Malvina,  which 


386 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


he  promised  to  do,  but,  it  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say,  never  ful 
filled  such  a promise. 

In  about  a year  after  the  commencement  of  my  attachment  foi 
Melross,  the  earl  expired,  and  the  marchioness  inherited  his  pos- 
sessions by  means  of  a forged  will  executed  by  Melross,  igno- 
rant, indeed,  at  the  time^  that  it  was  by  iniquity  she  obtained 
them,  though  her  conduct  since  that  period  has  proved  she  would 
not  have  suffered  any  compunction  from  such  a knowledge.  I re- 
moved from  the  Abbey  to  an  estate  about  fifteen  miles  from  it, 
which  the  earl  had  left  me,  and  here,  much  sooner  than  decency 
would  have  warranted,  avowed  my  intention  of  marrying  Mel- 
ross to  the  Marquis  and  Marchioness  of  Roslin.  The  conse- 
quences of  this  avowal  were  pretty  much  what  I expected.  The 
marquis,  more  by  looks  than  words  expressed  his  contempt ; but 
the  marchioness  openly  declared  her  indignation.  To  think  of 
uniting  myself  to  a being  so  low  in  life  and  fortune,  she  said,  as 
Melross,  was  an  insult  to  the  memory  of  her  father,  and  a degra- 
dation to  his  illustrious  house  ; it  would  also  be  a confirmation  of 
the  scandalous  reports  w’hich  had  already  been  circulated  to  the 
prejudice  of  my  character  about  him.  Her  words  roused  all  the 
violence  of  my  soul.  I upbraided  her  with  ingratitude  to  a parent 
who  had  stepped  beyond  the  bounds  of  rigid  propriety  to  give  her 
an  increase  of  fortune.  My  words  alarmed  her  and  the  marquis, 
ff'hey  hastily  demanded  an  explanation  of  them.  I did  not  hesi- 
tate in  giving  one,  protesting  at  the  same  time  that  I would  no 
longer  hurt  my  feelings  on  their  account,  as  I found  no  complai- 
sance to  my  wishes,  but  immediately  avow  Lady  Malvina  Fitz- 
alan  the  lawful  heiress  of  the  Earl  of  Dunreath.  The  marquis 
and  marchioness  changed  color  ; I saw  they  trembled  lest  I 
should  put  my  threats  into  execution,  though,  with  consummate 
art,  they  pretended  to  disbelieve  that  such  a will  as  I mentioned 
existed. 

‘ Beware,’  cried  I,  rising  from  my  chair  to  quit  the  room, 

' lest  I give  you  too  convincing  a proof  of  its  reality  ; except  I 
meet  with  the  attention  and  complaisance  I have  a right  to  ex- 
pect, I shall  no  longer  act  contrary  to  the  dictates  of  my  con- 
science by  concealing  it.  Unlimited  mistress  of  my  own  actions, 
what  but  affection  for  my  daughter  could  make  me  consult  her 
upon  any  of  them  ? Her  disapprobation  proceeds  alone  from 
selfishness,  since  an  alliance  with  Melross,  from  his  profession, 
accomplishments,  and  birth  would  not  disgrace  a house  even 
more  illustrious  than  the  one  she  is  descended  from  or  connected 
with.’ 

I retired  to  my  chamber,  secretly  exulting  at  the  idea  of 
having  conquered  all  opposition,  for  I plainly  perceived,  by  the 
marquis  and  marchioness’s  manner,  they  were  convinced  it  was 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


389 


fn  my  power  to  deprive  them  of  their  newly  acquired  possessions^ 
which  to  secure,  I doubted  not  their  sacrificing  their  pride  to 
my  wishes.  I exulted  in  the  idea  of  having  my  nuptials  with 
Melross  celebrated  with  that  splendor  I always  delighted  in, 
and  the  prospect  of  having  love  and  vanity  gratified  filled  me 
with  a kind  of  intoxicating  happiness. 

In  a few  hours  after  I had  retired  to  my  room,  the  mar- 
chioness sent  to  request  an  interview  with  me,  which  I readily 
granted.  She  entered  the  apartment  with  a respectful  air  very 
unusual  to  her,  and  immediately  made  an  apology  for  her  latet 
conduct.  She  acknowledged  I had  reason  to  be  offended,  but 
a little  reflection  had  convinced  her  of  her  error,  and  both  she 
and  the  marquis  thanked  me  for  consulting  them  about  the 
change  I was  about  making  in  my  situation,  and  would  pay 
every  attention  in  their  power  to  the  man  I had  honored  with 
my  choice.  That  I did  not  think  the  marchioness  sincere  in 
her  profession  you  may  believe,  but  complaisance  was  all  I 
required.  I accompanied  her  to  the  marquis  ; a general  recon- 
ciliation ensued,  and  Melross  was  presented  to  them.  In  about 
two  days  after  this  the  marchioness  came  into  my  dressing  room 
one  morning,  and  told  me  she  had  a proposal  to  make  which 
she  hoped  would  be  agreeable  to  me  to  comply  with.  It  was  the 
marquis’s  intention  and  hers  to  go  immediately  to  the  Conti- 
nent, and  they  had  been  thinking,  if  Melross  and  I would  favor 
them  with  our  company,  that  we  had  better  defer  our  nupitals 
till  we  reached  Paris,  which  was  the  first  place  they  intended 
visiting,  as  their  solemnization  in  Scotland  so  soon  after  the 
earl’s  decease  might  displease  his  friends,  by  whom  we  were 
surrounded,  and,  on  their  return,  which  would  be  soon,  they 
would  introduce  Melross  to  their  connections  as  a man  every 
way  worthy  of  their  notice.  After  a little  hesitation  I agreed 
to  this  plan,  for,  where  it  interfered  not  with  my  own  inclinations, 
I wished  to  preserve  an  appearance  of  propriety  to  the  world, 
and  I could  not  avoid  thinking  my  marrying  so  soon  after  the 
earl’s  death  would  draw  censure  upon  me,  which  I should 
avoid  by  the  projected  tour,  as  the  certain  time  of  my  nuptials 
could  not  then  be  ascertained.  Melross  submitted  cheerfully 
to  our  new  arrangements,  and  it  was  settled  farther,  to  preserve 
appearances,  that  he  should  go  before  us  to  Paris.  I supplied 
him  with  everything  requisite  for  making  an  elegant  appearance, 
and  he  departed  in  high  spirits  at  the  prospect  cf  his  splendid  esr- 
tablishment  for  life. 

I counted  the  moments  with  impatience  for  rejoining  him, 
and,  as  had  been  settled,  we  commenced  our  journey  a month 
after  his  departure.  It  was  now  the  middle  of  winter,  and  ere 
we  stopped  for  the  night,  darkness,  almost  in  penetrable,  had 


388 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Yelled  the  earth.  Fatigued,  and  almost  exhausted  by  the  cold, 
I followed  the  marquis  through  a long  passage,  lighted  by  a 
glimmering  lamp,,  to  a parlor  which  was  well  lighted  and  had  a 
comfortable  fire.  I started  with  amazement  on  entering  it  at 
finding  myself  in  a place  I thought  familiar  to  me  ; my  sur- 
prise, however,  was  but  for  an  instant,  yet  I could  not  help  ex- 
pressing it  to  the  marquis.  ‘Your  eyes,  madam,’  cried  he, 
with  a cruel  solemnity,  ‘ have  not  deceived  you,  for  you  are 
now  in  Dunreath  Abbey  ! ’ ‘ Dunreath  Abbey  ! ’ I repeated. 

‘ Gracious  Heaven  ! what  can  be  the  meaning  of  this  ? ’ ‘To 
hide  your  folly,  your  imprudence,  your  deceit  from  the  world,’ 
he  exclaimed  ; ‘ to  prevent  your  executing  the  wild  projects  of 
a depraved  and  distempered  mind,  by  entering  into  a union  at 
once  contemptible  and  preposterous,  and  to  save  those,  from  whom 
alone  you  derive  your  consequence  by  your  connection  with 
them,  farther  mortification  on  your  account.  ’ 

To  describe  fully  the  effect  of  this  speech  upon  a heart  like 
mine  is  impossible  ; the  fury  which  pervaded  my  soul  would,  I 
believe,  have  hurried  me  into  a deed  of  dire  revenge,  had  I had 
the  power  of  executing  it  ; my  quivering  lips  could  not  express 
my  strong  indignation. 

‘ And  do  you  then,  in  a country  like  this,’  I cried,  ‘ dare  to  think 
you  can  deprive  me  of  my  liberty  ?’  ‘Yes,’  replied  he,  with  in- 
sulting coolness,  ‘ when  it  is  known  you  are  incapable  of  making 
a proper  use  of  that  liberty.  You  should  thank  me,’  he  con- 
tinued, ‘ for  palliating  your  late'  conduct,  by  imputing  it  rather 
to  an  intellectual  derangement  than  to  total  depravity.  From 
what  other  source  than  the  former  could  you  have  asserted  that 
there  was  a will  in  Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan’s  favor  ? ’ 

These  words  at  once  developed  the  cause  of  his  unjustifiable 
conduct,  and  proved  that  there  is  no  real  faith  between  the  guilty. 
From  my  disposition  the  marquis  was  convinced  that  I would 
assume  a haughty  sway  over  him,  in  consequence  of  the  secret 
of  the  will.  He  also  dreaded  that  passion  or  caprice  might  one 
day  induce  me  to  betray  that  secret,  and  wrest  from  him  his  un- 
lawful possessions.  Thus  pride  and  avarice  tempted  and  de- 
termined him,  by  confining  me,  to  rid  himself  of  these  fears. 
‘ Oh,  would  to  Heaven,’  cried  I,  replying  to  the  last  part  of  his 
speech,  ‘ I had  proved  my  assertion  ; had  I done  justice  to  others, 
I should  not  have  been  entangled  in  the  snare  of  treachery.’ 
‘Prove  the  assertion  now,’  said  he,  ‘by  showing  me  the  will,  and 
you  may,  perhaps,’  he  continued,  in  a hesitating  accent,  ‘find 
your  doing  so  attended  with  pleasing  consequences.’ 

Rage  and  scorn  flashed  from  my  eyes  at  these  words.  ‘ No,’ 
cried  I,  ‘ had  you  the  power  of  torturing,  you  should  not  tear  it 
from  me.  I will  keep  it  to  atone  for  my  sins,  and  expose  yours 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


389^ 


to  view  by  restoring  it  to  the  right  owner.’  I demanded  my 
liberty,  I threatened,  supplicated,  bat  all  in  vain.  The  marquis 
told  me  I might  as  well  compose  myself,  for  my  fate  was  decided. 
‘You  know,’  cried  he,  with  a malicious  look,  ‘you  have  no 
friends  to  inquire  or  interfere  about  you,  and,  even  if  you  had, 
when  I told  them  what  I believe  to  be  the  case,  that  your  senses 
were  disordered,  they  would  never  desire  to  have  you  released 
from  this  confinement.’  I called  for  my  daughter.  ‘You  will 
see  her  no  more  ; ’ he  replied,  ‘ the  passions  she  has  so  long 
blushed  to  behold  she  will  no  more  witness.’  ‘ Rather  say,’  I ex- 
claimed, ‘ that  she  dare  not  behold  her  injured  parent ; but  let 
not  the  wretch,  who  has  severed  the  ties  of  nature  hope  to  escape 
unpunished.  No,  my  sufferings  will  draw  a dreadful  weight 
upon  her  head,  and  may,  when  least  expected,  torture  her  heart 
with  anguish.’ 

Convinced  that  I was  entirely  in  the  marquis’s  power  ; con- 
vinced that  I had  nothing  to  hope  from  him  or  my  daughter, 
rage,  horror,  and  agony  at  their  unjust  and  audacious  treatment 
kindled  in  my  breast  a sudden  frenzy,  which  strong  convulsions 
only  terminated.  When  I recovered  from  them  I found  myself 
on  a bed  in  a room  which,  at  the  first  glance,  I knew  to  be  the 
one  the  late  Lady  Dunreath  had  occupied,  to  whose  honors  I so 
unworthily  succeeded.  Mrs.  Bruce,  who  had  been  housekeeper 
at  the  Abbey  before  my  marriage,  sat  beside  me  ; I hesitated  a 
few  minutes  whether  I should  address  her  as  a suppliant  or  a 
superior  ; the  latter,  however,  being  most  agreeable  to  my  inclina- 
tions, I bid  her,  with  a haughty  air,  which  I hoped  would  awe 
her  into  obedience,  assist  me  in  rising,  and  procure  some  convey- 
ance from  the  Abbey  without  delay.  The  marquis  entered  the 
chamber  as  I spoke.  ‘ Compose  yourself,  madam,’  said  he,  ‘ your 
destiny,  I repeat,  is  irrevocable  ; this  Abbey  is  your  future  resi- 
dence, and  bless  those  who  have  afforded  your  follies  such  an 
asylum.  It  behooves  both  the  marchioness  and  me  indeed  to 
seclude  a woman  who  might  cast  imputations  on  our  characters, 
which  those  unacquainted  with  them  might  believe.’  I started 
from  the  bed,  in  the  loose  dress  in  which  they  had  placed  me  on 
it,  and  stamping  round  the  room,  demanded  my  liberty.  The 
marquis  heard  my  demand  with  contemptuous  silence,  and 
quitted  the  room.  I attempted  to  rush  after  him,  but  he  pushed 
me  back  with  violence,  and  closed  the  door.  My  feelings  again 
brought  on  convulsions,  which  terminated  in  a delirium  and 
fever.  In  this  situation  the  marquis  and  marchioness  abandoned 
me,  hoping,  no  doubt,  that  my  disorder  would  soon  lay  me  in  a 
prison  even  more  secure  than  the  one  they  had  devoted  me  to. 
Many  weeks  elapsed  ere  I showed  any  symptom  of  recovery.  On 
regaining  my  senses,  I seemed  as  if  awaking  from  a tedious  sleep 


S90 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


m which  I had  been  tortured  with  frightful  visions.  The  first 
object  my  eyes  beheld,  now  blessed  with  the  powers  of  clear  per- 
ception, was  Mrs.  Bruce  bending  over  my  pillow,  with  a look  of 
anxiety  and  grief,  which  implied  a wish,  yet  a doubt,  of  my 
recovery. 

‘ Tell  me,’  said  I faintly,  ‘ am  I really  in  Dunreath  Abbey — 
am  I really  confined  within  its  walls  by  order  of  my  child  ? ’ 

Mrs.  Bruce  sighed.  ‘ Do  not  disturb  yourself  with  questions 
now,’ said  she;  ‘the  reason  Heaven  has  so  mercifully  restored 
would  be  ill-employed  in  vain  murmurs.’  ‘Vain  murmurs  ! ’ I 
repeated,  and  a deep,  desponding  sigh  burst  from  my  heart.  I 
lay  silent  a long  time  after  this.  The  gloom  which  encompassed 
me  at  length  grew  too  dreary  to  be  borne,  and  I desired  Mrs. 
Bruce  to  draw  back  the  curtains  of  the  bed  and  windows.  She 
obeyed,  and  the  bright  beams  of  the  sun,  darting  into  the  room, 
displayed  to  my  view  an  object  I could  not  behold  without 
shuddering — this  was  the  portrait  of  Lady  Dunreath,  exactly  op- 
posite the  bed.  My  mind  was'  softened  by  illness,  and  I felt  in 
that  moment  as  if  her  sainted  spirit  stood  before  me  to  awaken 
my  conscience  to  remorse  and  my  heart  to  repentance.  The 
benevolence  which  had  irradiated  the  countenance  of  the  original 
with  a celestial  expression  was  powerfully  expressed  upon  the 
canvas,  and  recalled,  oh  ! how  affectingly  to  my  memory,  the 
period  in  which  this  most  amiable  of  women  gave  me  a refuge  in 
her  house,  in  her  arms,  from  the  storms  of  life ; and  yet  her  child, 
I groaned,  her  child,  I was  accessory  in  destroying.  Oh ! how 
excruciating  were  my  feelings  at  this  period  of  awakened  con- 
science! I no  longer  inveighed  against  my  sufferings.  I con- 
sidered them  in  the  light  of  retribution,  and  felt  an  awful  resig- 
nation take  possession  of  my  soul.  Yes,  groaned  I to  myself,  it 
is  fit  that  in  the  very  spot  in  which  I triumphed  in  deceit  and 
cruelty  I should  meet  the  punishment  due  to  my  misdeeds. 

The  change  in  my  disposition  produced  a similar  one  in  my 
temper,  so  that  Mrs.  Bruce  found  the  task  of  attending  me  easier 
than  she  had  imagined  it  would  be ; yet  I did  not  submit  to  con- 
finement without  many  efforts  to  liberate  myself  through  her 
means ; but  her  fidelity  to  her  unnatural  employers  was  not  to  be 
shaken.  Blushing,  however,  at  my  past  enormities,  I should 
rather  have  shrunk  from  than  solicited  admission  again  into  the 
world,  had  not  my  ardent  desire  of  making  reparation  to  the  de- 
scendants of  Lady  Dunreath  influenced  me  to  desire  my  freedom. 
Oh ! never  did  that  desire  cease — never  did  a morning  dawn,  an 
evening  close,  without  entreating  Heaven  to  allow  me  means  of 
restoring  to  the  injured  their  inheritance.  Mrs.  Bruce,  though 
steady,  was  not  cruel,  and  nursed  me  with  the  tenderest  atten- 
tion till  my  health  was  re-established.  She  then  ceased  to  see  me^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


391 


except  at  night,  but  took  care  I should  always  be  amply  stocked 
with  necessaries.  She  supplied  me  with  religious  and  moral 
books;  also,  materials  for  writing,  if  I chose  to  amuse  myself 
with  making  comments  on  them.  To  those  books  I am  indebted 
for  being  able  to  endure,  with  some  degree  of  calmness,  my  long 
and  dreadful  captivity.  They  enlarged  my  heart,  they  enlight- 
ened its  ideas  concerning  the  Supreme  Being,  they  impressed  it 
“with  awful  submission  to  his  will,  they  convinced  me  more  for- 
cibly of  my  transgressions,  yet  without  exciting  despair;  for,  while 
they  showed  the  horrors  of  vice,  they  proved  the  efficacy  of  re- 
pentance. Debarred  of  the  common  enjoyments  of  life — air,  ex- 
ercise, and  society — in  vain  my  heart  assured  me  my  punishment 
was  inadequate  to  my  crimes ; nature  repined,  and  a total  languor 
seized  me.  Mrs.  Bruce  at  last  told  me  I should  be  allowed  the 
range  of  that  par^  of  the  building  in  which  I was  confined  (for  I 
had  hitherto  been  limited  to  one  room),  and  consequently  air 
from  the  windows,  if  I promised  to  make  no  attempt  for  recover- 
ing my  freedom — an  attempt,  she  assured  me,  which  would  prove 
abortive,  as  none  but  people  attached  to  the  marquis  lived  in  or 
about  the  Abbey,  who  would  immediately  betray  me  to  him; 
and  if  he  ever  detected  such  a step,  it  was  his  determination  to 
hurry  me  to  France. 

Certain  that  he  would  be  capable  of  such  baseness,  touched  by 
the  smallest  indulgence,  and  eager  to  procure  any  recreation,  I 
gave  her  the  most  solemn  assurances  of  never  attempting  to  make 
known  my  situation.  She  accordingly  unlocked  the  several  doors 
that  had  hitherto  impeded  my  progress  from  one  apartment  to  an- 
other, and  removed  the  iron  bolts  which  secured  the  shutters  of 
the  windows.  Oh  ! with  what  mingled  pain  and  pleasure  did  I 
contemplate  the  rich  prospect  stretched  before  them,  now  that  I was 
debarred  from  enjoying  it.  At  liberty,  I wondered  how  I could 
ever  have  contemplated  it  with  a careless  eye ; and  my  spirits, 
which  the  air  had  revived,  suddenly  sunk  into  despondence,  when 
I reflected  I enjoyed  this  common  blessing  but  by  stealth ; yet 
v/ho,  cried  I,  with  agony,  can  I blame  but  myself  ? The  choicest 
gifts  of  Heaven  were  mine,  and  I lost  them  by  my  own  means. 
'.Yretch  as  I was,  the  flrst  temptation  that  assailed  warped  me 
irom  integrity,  and  my  error  was  marked  by  the  deprivation  of 
every  good.  With  eager,  with  enthusiastic  delight,  I gazed  on 
scenes  which  I had  so  often  before  regarded  with  a careless  eye ; 
it  seemed  as  if  I had  only  now  perception  to  distinguish  their 
beauties ; the  seasons’  difference  made  a material  change  to  me, 
as  all  the  windows  were  shut  up  in  winter,  except  those  of  the 
apartment  I occupied,  which  only  looked  into  a gloomy  court. 
Ah ! how  welcome  to  me,  then,  was  the  return  of  spring,  which 
again  restored  to  me  the  indulgence  of  visiting  the  windows. 


892 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


How  deliglitful  to  my  eyes  the  green  of  the  valley,  aiid  the  glow* 
ing  bloom  of  the  mountain  shrubs  just  bursting  into  verdure! 
Ah!  how  soothing  to  my  ear  the  lulling  sound  of  waterfalls,  and 
the  lively  carol  of  the  birds ; how  refreshing  the  sweetness  of  the 
air,  the  fragrance  of  the  plants,  which  friendly  zephyrs,  as  if 
pitying  my  confinement,  wafted  through  the  windows.  The  twi- 
light hour  was  also  hailed  by  me  with  delight;  it  was  then  I 
turned  my  eyes  from  earth  to  heaven,  and,  regarding  its  blue  and 
spangled  vault  but  as  a thin  covering  between  me  and  myriads  of 
angels,  felt  a sweet  sensation  of  mingled  piety  and  pleasure, 
which  for  the  time  had  power  to  steep  my  sorrows  in  forgetful- 
ness ! But,  in  relating  my  feelings,  I wander  from  the  real  pur- 
pose of  my  narrative,  and  forget  that  I am  describing  those 
feelings  to  a person  who,  from  my  injurious  actions,  can  take  but 
little  interest  in  them. 

The  will  I shall  deliver  to  you  to-night.  I advise  you,  if  your 
brother  cannot  immediately  be  found,  to  put  it  into  the  hands  of 
some  man  on  whose  abilities  and  integrity  you  can  rely  ; but  till 
you  meet  with  such  a person,  beware  of  discovering  you  have  it 
in  your  possession,  lest  the  marquis,  who,  I am  sorry  to  say,  I 
believe  capable  of  almost  any  baseness,  should  remove  from  your 
knowledge  the  penitent,  whose  testimony  to  the  validity  of  the 
deed  will  be  so  cheerfully  given,  and  is  so  materially  essential. 
Be  secret,  then,  I again  conjure  you,  till  everything  is  properly 
arranged  for  the  avowal  of  your  rights  ; and  oh ! may  the  restora- 
tion of  all  those  rights  you  shall  claim  be  to  you  and  to  your 
brother  productive  of  every  felicity.  From  your  hands  may  the 
wealth  it  puts  into  them  bestow  relief  and  comfort  on  the  children 
of  adversity  ; thus  yielding  to  your  hearts  a pure  and  permanent 
satisfaction  which  the  mere  possession  of  riches,  or  the  expendi- 
ture on  idle  vanities,  never  can  bestow.  As  much  as  possible  I 
wish  to  have  my  daughter  saved  from  public  disgrace.  From 
me  you  will  say  she  merits  not  this  lenient  wish  ; but  alas  ! I 
hold  myself  accountable  for  her  misconduct.  Intrusted  to  my 
care  by  Providence,  I neglected  the  sacred  charge,  nor  ever 
curbed  a passion  or  laid  the  foundation  of  a virtue.  Ah  1 may 
her  wretched  parent’s  prayers  be  yet  availing ; may  penitence,  ere 
too  late,  visit  her  heart,  and  teach  her  to  regret  and  expiate  her 
errors  ! Had  she  been  united  to  a better  man,  I think  she  never 
would  have  swerved  so  widely  from  nature  and  from  duty  ; but 
the  selfish  soul  of  the  marquis  taught  her  to  regard  ^elf  as  the 
first  consideration  in  life. 

Mrs.  Bruce  informed  me  that  the  marquis  had  written  to  Mel- 
ross,  informing  him  that  I had  changed  my  mind,  and  would 
think  no  more  about  him,  and  she  supposed  he  had  procured 
gome  pleasant  establishment  in  France,  as  no  one  had  ever  heard 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


393 


of  his  returning'  from  it.  She  made  several  attempts  to  prevail 
on  me  to  give  the  will  to  her,  but  I resisted  all  her  arts,  and  was 
rejoiced  to  think  I had  concealed  it  in  a place  which  would  never 
be  suspected.  My  narrative  now  concluded,  I wait  with  even 
trembling  impatience  for  your  expected  visit — for  that  moment 
in  which  I shall  make  some  reparation  for  my  injuries  to  your 
mother.  I am  also  anxious  for  the  moment  in  which  I shall 
receive  the  promised  narrative  of  your  life.  From  your  tears, 
your  words,  your  manner,  I may  expect  a tale  of  sorrow  ; ah  I 
may  it  be  only  that  gentle  sorrow  which  yields  to  the  influence 
of  time  and  the  sweets  of  friendship  and  conscious  innocence. 

I cannot  forbear  describing  what  I felt  on  first  hearing  your 
voice — a voice  so  like  in  its  harmonious  tones  to  one  I knew  had 
long  been  silent.  Impressed  with  an  awful  dread,  I stood  upon 
the  stairs,  which  I was  descending  to  visit  the  chapel,  as  was  my 
constant  custom  at  the  close  of  day.  Shivering  and  appalled, 
I had  not  for  a few  moments  power  to  move — but  when  I at 
last  ventured  nearer  to  the  door,  and  saw  you  kneeling  before 
the  dust-covered  shade  of  her  I had  injured,  when  I heard  you 
call  yourself  her  wretched  orphan,  ah  ! what  were  my  emotions  ? 
An  awful  voice  seemed  sounding  in  my  ear — ‘ Behold  the  hour 
of  retribution  is  arrived  ! Behold  a being,  whom  the  hand  of 
Providence  has  conducted  hither  to  receive  reparation  for  the  in- 
justice you  did  her  parents  ! Adore  that  mighty  hand  which 
thus  affords  you  means  of  making  atonement  for  your  offenses!  ’ 
I did  adore  it.  I raised  my  streaming  eyes,  my  trembling  hands 
to  Heaven,  and  blessed  the  gracious  Power  which  had  granted 
my  prayer.  The  way  by  which  I saw  you  quit  my  retirement, 
proved  to  me  your  entrance  into  it  was  unknown.  With  an  im- 
patience bordering  on  agony,  I waited  for  the  next  evening — it 
came  without  bringing  you,  and  no  language  can  express  my  dis- 
appointment. Dejected,  I returned  to  my  chamber,  which  you 
entered  soon  after,  and  where  you  received  so  great  a fright,  yet, 
be  assured,  not  a greater  one  than  I experienced,  for  the  gleam  of 
moonlight  which  displayed  me  to  you  gave  you  full  to  my  view, 
and  I beheld  the  very  form  and  face  of  Lady  Malvina.  In  form 
and  face  may  you  alone  resemble  her;  different,  far  different,  be 
your  destiny  from  hers.  Soon  may  your  brother  be  restored  to 
your  arms.  Should  he  then  shudder  at  my  name,  oh ! teach  him. 
with  a mercy  like  your  own,  to  accord  me  forgiveness. 

Ye  sweet  and  precious  descendants  of  this  illustrious  house, 
ye  rightful  heirs  of  Dunreath  Abbey,  may  your  future  joys 
amply  recompense  your  past  sorrows!  May  those  sorrows  be 
forgotten,  or  only  remembered  to  temper  prosperity,  and  teach 
it  pity  for  the  woes  of  others  ! May  your  virtues  add  to  the 
renown  of  your  ancestors,  and  entail  eternal  peace  upon  youi 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


^94 

souls  ! May  their  line  by  you  be  continued,  and  continued  as  9 
blessing  to  all  around  ! May  your  names  be  consecrated  to  pos- 
terity by  the  voice  of  gratitude,  and  excite  in  others  an  emula- 
tion to  pursue  your  courses  ! 

Alas  ! my  unhappy  child  ! why  do  I not  express  such  a wish 
for  you  ? I have  expressed  it— I have  prayed  for  its  accomplish- 
ment— I have  wept  in  bitterness  at  the  idea  of  its  being  unavail- 
ing ; lost  to  the  noble  propensities  of  nature,  it  is  not  from  virtue, 
but  from  pomp  and  vanity  you  seek  to  derive  pleasure. 

Oh  ! lovely  orphans  of  Malvina,  did  you  but  know,  or  could 
you  but  conceive,  the  bitter  anguish  I endure  on  my  daughter’s 
account,  you  would  think  yourselves  amply  avenged  for  all  your 
injuries. 

O God  ! ere  my  trembling  soul  leaves  its  frail  tenement  of 
clay,  let  it  be  cheered  by  the  knowledge  of  my  child’s  repentance. 

Oh  ! you  young  and  tender  pair,  who  are  about  entering  into 
the  dangerous  possession  of  riches,  learn  from  me  that  their  mis- 
application, the  perversion  of  our  talents,  and  the  neglect  of  our 
duties,  will,  even  in  this  world,  meet  their  punishment. 

Eesolute  in  doing  justice  to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  I anr 
ready,  whenever  I am  called  upon,  to  bear  evidence  to  the  validity 
of  the  will  Lshall  deliver  into  your  possession.  Soon  may  all  it 
entitles  you  to  be  restored,  is  the  sincere  prayer  of  her  who  sub- 
scribes herself,  the  truly  penitent 

Annabella  Dunreath. 
CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

Cease,  then,  ah  ! cease,  fond  mortal  to  repine 
At  laws,  which  Nature  wisely  did  ordain  ; 

Pleasure,  what  is  it  ? rightly  to  define, 

’Tis  but  a short-lived  interval  from  pain  ; 

Or  rather  alternately  renewed 

Gives  to  our  lives  a sweet  vicissitude.— Brown. 

The  emotions  Amanda  experienced  from  reading  this  narrative 
deeply  affected  but  gradually  subsided  from  her  mind,  leaving  it 
only  occupied  by  pity  for  the  penitent  Lady  Dunreath,  and  pleas 
are  at  the  prospect  of  Oscar’s  independence — a pleasure  so  pure, 
so  fervent,  that  it  had  power  to  steal  her  from  her  sorrows  ; and 
when  the  recollection  of  them  again  returned,  she  endeavored  to 
banish  it  by  thinking  of  the  necessity  there  was  for  immediately 
adopting  some  plan  for  the  disclosure  of  the  will  Lady  Dunreath 
had  advised  her  to  put  into  the  hands  of  a friend  of  integrity  and 
abilities. 

^ But  where, ’ cried  the  desolate  Amanda,  ‘can  I find  such  a 
friend  ? ’ The  few,  the  very  few  whom  she  had  reason  to  think 
regarded  her,  had  neither  power  nor  ability  to  assist  her  in  what 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


395 


Would  probably  be  an  arduous  demand  for  restitution.  After  sit 
ting*  a considerable  time  in  deep  meditation,  the  idea  of  Rushbrook 
suddenly  occurred,  and  she  started,  as  if  in  joyful  surprise  at  the 
remembrance.  She  considered  that,  though  almost  a stranger  to 
him,  an  application  of  such  a nature  must  rather  be  regarded  as  a 
compliment  than  a liberty,  from  the  great  opinion  it  would  prove 
she  had  of  his  honor  by  intrusting  him  with  such  a secret.  From 
his  looks  and  manner,  she  was  well  convinced  he  would  not  only 
deeply  feel  for  the  injured,  but  ably  advise  how  those  injuries 
should  be  redressed.  From  his  years  and  situation  there  could  be 
no  impropriety  in  addressing  him,  and  she  already  in  imagination 
beheld  him  her  friend,  advocate,  and  adviser.  He  also,  she  trusted, 
would  be  able  to  put  her  in  a way  of  making  inquiries  after  Oscar. 
Oh  ! how  delightful  the  prospect  of  discovering  that  brother — of 
discovering,  but  to  put  him  in  possession  of  even  a splendid  inde- 
pendence ! Ah  1 how  sweet  the  idea  of  being  again  folded  to  a 
heart  interested  in  her  welfare,  after  being  so  long  a solitary 
mourner  treading  the  rugged  path  of  life,  and  bending  as  she 
went  beneath  its  adverse  storm  ! Ah  ! how  sweet  again  to  meet 
an  eye  which  should  beam  with  tenderness  on  hers,  an  ear  which 
should  listen  with  attentive  rapture  to  her  accents,  and  a voice 
that  would  soothe  with  softest  sympathy  her  sorrows  ! It  is  only 
those  who,  like  her,  have  known  the  social  ties  of  life  in  all  their 
sweetness  ; who,  like  her,  have  mourned  their  loss  with  all  the 
bitterness  of  anguish,  that  can  possibly  conceive  her  feelings  as 
these  ideas  occurred  to  her  mind.  ‘ O Oscar  ! oh,  my  brother  ! ’ 
she  exclaimed,  while  tears  wet  her  pale  cheeks,  ‘ how  rapturous 
the  moment  which  restores  you  to  me  ! How  delightful  to  think 
your  youth  will  no  more  experience  the  chill  of  poverty — your 
benevolence  no  longer  suffer  restraints  ! Now  will  your  virtues 
shine  forth  with  full  luster,  dignifying  the  house  from  which  you 
have  descended,  doing  service  to  your  country,  and  spreading 
diffusive  happiness  around.  * 

The  morning  surprised  Amanda  in  the  midst  of  her  medita* 
lions.  She  opened  the  shutters,  and  hailed  its  first  glories  in  the 
eastern  hemisphere ; the  sunbeams,  exhaling  the  mists  of  the  val- 
ley, displayed  its  smiling  verdure,  forming  a fine  contrast  to  the 
deep  shadows  that  yet  partially  enveloped  the  surrounding 
mountains.  The  morning  breeze  gently  agitated  the  old  trees, 
from  whose  bending  heads  unnumbered  birds  arose,  and  in  their 
matin  notes  seemed  to  consecrate  the  first  return  of  day  to  the 
Great  Author  of  life  and  light ! 

Spontaneous  praise  burst  from  the  lips  of  Amanda,  and  she  felt 
all  that  calm  and  sweet  delight  which  ever  pervades  a mind  of 
religion  and  sensibility  on  viewing  the  rural  beauties  of  nature. 
8he  left  the  charming  scene  to  try  and  get  a little  rest,  but  she 


396 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


thought  not  of  undressing;  she  soon  sunk  into  a gentle  sleep,  and 
awoke  with  renovated  spirits  near  the  breakfast  hour. 

Mrs.  Bruce  expressed  the  utmost  regret  at  the  necessity  there 
was  for  parting  with  her  guests;  but  added,  that  ‘she  believed, 
as  well  as  hoped,  tlieir  absence  from  her  would  be  but  short,  as 
she  was  sure  the  marquis’s  family  would  leave  Scotland  almost 
immediately  after  Lady  Euphrasia’s  nuptials.’  In  vain  did 
Amanda  struggle  for  fortitude  to  support  the  mention  of  those 
nuptials ; her  frame  trembled,  her  heart  sickened,  whenever  they 
were  talked  of ; the  spirits  she  had  endeavored  to  collect  from  the 
idea,  that  they  would  all  be  requisite  in  the  important  affair  she 
must  undertake,  fleeted  away  at  Mrs.  Bruce’s  words,  and  a heavy 
languor  took  possession  of  her. 

They  did  not  leave  the  Abbey  till  after  tea  in  the  evening,  and 
the  idea  that  she  might  soon  behold  her  brother  the  acknowl- 
edged heir  of  that  Abbey,  cast  again  a gleam  of  pleasure  on  the 
sad  heart  of  Amanda ; a gleam,  I say,  for  it  faded  before  the  al- 
most instantaneous  recollection,  that  ere  that  period  Lo'^d  Morti- 
mer and  Lady  Euphrasia  would  be  united.  Sunk  in  a profound 
melancholy,  she  forgot  her  situation,  heeded  not  the  prog- 
ress of  the  carriage,  or  remarked  any  object.  A sudden 
jolt  roused  her  from  her  reverie,  and  she  blushed  as  she 
thought  of  the  suspicions  it  might  give  rise  to  in  the  mind 
of  Mrs.  Duncan,  whose  intelligent  eye  on  the  preceding  night 
had  more  than  half  confessed  her  knowledge  of  Amanda’s 
feelings.  She  now,  though  with  some  embarrassment,  attempted 
to  enter  into  conversation,  and  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  with  deep  at- 
tention had  marked  her  pensive  companion^  with  much  cheerfuL 
ness  rendered  the  attempt  a successful  one.  The  chaise  was  now 
turning  from  the  valley,  and  Amanda  leaned  from  her  window  to 
take  another  view  of  Dunreath  Abbey.  The  sun  was  already 
sunk  below  the  horizon,  but  a track  of  glory  still  remained  that 
marked  the  spot  in  which  its  daily  course  was  finished ; a dubious 
luster  yet  played  around  the  spires  of  the  Abbey,  and  while  it 
displayed  its  vast  magnificence  by  contrast  added  to  its  gloom — 
a gloom  heightened  by  the  dreary  solitude  of  its  situation,  for  the 
valley  was  entirely  overshaded  by  the  dark  projection  of  the 
mountains,  on  whose  summits  a few  bright  and  lingering  beams 
yet, remained,  that  showed  the  wild  shrubs  waving  in  the  evening 
breeze.  A pensive  spirit  seemed  now  to  have  taken  possession  of 
Mrs.  Duncan,  a spirit  congenial  to  the  scene;  and  the  rest  of 
the  little  journey  was  passed  almost  in  silence.  Their  lodgings 
were  at  the  entrance  of  the  town,  and  Mrs.  Bruce  had  taken  care 
they  should  find  every  requisite  refreshment  within  them.  The 
woman  of  the  house  had  already  prepared  a comfortable  supper 
for  them,  which  was  served  up  soon  after  their  arrival.  When 


THE  CHILDREN  01  THE  ABBEY. 


397 


over,  Mrs.  Duncan,  assisted  by  Amanda,  put  the  children  to  bed, 
as  she  knew,  till  accustomed  to  her,  they  would  not  like  the  at- 
tendance  of  the  maid  of  the  house.  Neither  she  nor  Amanda  felt 
sleepy;  it  was  a fine  moonlight  night,  and  they  were  tempted  to 
walk  out  upon  a terrace,  to  which  a glass  door  from  the  room 
opened.  The  terrace  overhung  a deep  valley  which  stretched  to 
the  sea,  and  the  rocky  promontory  that  terminated  it  was  crowned 
with  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  castle ; the  moonbeams  seemed  to 
sleep  upon  its  broken  battlements,  and  the  waves  that  stole  mur- 
muring to  the  shore  cast  a silvery  spray  around  it.  A pensive 
pleasure  pervaded  the  hearts  of  Mrs.  Duncan  and  Amanda,  and 
conversing  on  the  charms  of  the  scene  they  walked  up  and  down, 
when  suddenly  upon  the  floating  air  they  distinguished  the  sound 
of  a distant  drum  beating  the  tattoo.  Both  stopped,  and  leaned 
upon  a fragment  of  a parapet  wall,  which  had  once  stretched 
along  the  terrace ; and  Mxs.  Duncan,  who  knew  the  situation  of 
the  country,  said  that  the  sounds  they  heard  proceeded  from  a 
fort  near  the  town.  They  ceased  in  a short  time,  but  were  almost 
immediately  succeeded  by  martial  music ; and  Amanda  soon  dis- 
tinguished an  admired  march  of  her  father’s.  Ah,  how  affect- 
ingly  did  it  remind  her  of  him ! She  recalled  the  moments  in 
which  she  had  played  it  for  him,  while  he  hung  over  her  chair 
with  delight  and  tenderness ; she  wept  at  the  tender  remembrance 
it  excited — wept  at  listening  to  the  sounds  which  had  so  often 
given  to  his  pale  cheek  the  flush  of  ardor.  They  did  not  return 
to  the  house  till  convinced  by  a long  interval  of  silence  that  the 
music  had  ceased  for  the  night. 

Amanda,  having  formed  a plan  relative  to  the  will,  determined 
not  to  delay  executing  it.  She  had  often  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Dun- 
can her  uneasiness  concerning  her  brother,  as  an  excuse  for  the 
melancholy  that  lady,  in  a half-serious,  half-jesting  manner,  so 
often  rallied  her  about ; and  she  now  intended  to  assign  her  jour- 
ney to  London — which  she  was  resolved  should  immediately  take 
place — to  her  anxious  wish  of  discovering,  or  at  least  inquiring 
about  him.  The  next  morning  she  accordingly  mentioned  her  in- 
tention. Mrs.  Duncan  was  not  only  surprised,  but  concerned,  and 
endeavored  to  dissuade  her  from  it  by  representing,  in  the  most 
forcible  manner,  the  dangers  she  might  experience  in  so  long  a 
journey  without  a protector. 

Amanda  assured  her  she  was  already  aware  of  these,  but  the 
apprehensions  they  excited  were  less  painful  than  the  anxiety  she 
suffered  on  her  brother’s  account,  and  ended  by  declaring  her 
resolution  unalterable. 

Mrs.  Duncan,  who,  in  her  heart,  could  not  blame  Amanda  for 
such  a resolution,  now  expressed  her  hopes  that  she  would  not 
make  a longer  stay  in  London  than  was  absolutely  necessary,  de 


398  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 

daring  that  her  society  would  be  a loss  she  could  scarcely  supf 
port. 

Amanda  thanked  her  for  her  tenderness,  and  said,  ‘ she  hoped 
they  should  yet  enjoy  many  happy  days  together.’  She  proposed 
traveling  in  a chaise  to  the  borders  of  England,  and  then  pursu- 
ing  the  remainder  of  the  journey  in  a stage  coach.  The  woman, 
of  the  house  was  sent  for,  and  requested  to  engage  a carriage 
for  her  against  the  morning,  which  she  promised  to  do;  and  the 
intervening  time  was  almost  entirely  passed  by  Mrs.  Duncan  in 
lamenting  the  approaching  loss  of  Amanda’s  society,  and  in  en- 
treaties for  her  to  return  as  soon  as  possible.  Till  this  period  she 
did  not  know,  nor  did  Amanda  conceive  the  strength  of  her  friend- 
ship. She  presented  her  purse  to  our  heroine,  and  in  the  impas- 
sioned language  of  sincerity,  entreated  her  to  consider  it  as  the 
purse  of  a sister,  and  take  from  it  whatever  was  necessary  for  her 
long  journey  and  uncertain  stay. 

Amanda,  who  never  wished  to  lie  under  obligations,  when  she 
could  possibly  avoid  them,  declined  the  offer;  but  with  the 
warmest  expressions  of  gratitude  and  sensibility,  declaring  (what 
she  thought  indeed  would  be  the  case)  that  she  diad  more  than 
sufficient  for  all  her  purposes ; all,  therefore,  she  would  accept  was 
what  Mrs.  Duncan  owed  her. 

Mrs.  Duncan  begged  her  to  take  a letter  from  her  to  a family 
near  whose  house  her  first  day’s  journey  would  terminate.  They 
were  relations  of  Mr.  Duncan’s,  she  said,  and  had  been  extremely 
kind  to  him  and  her.  She  had  kept  up  a correspondence  with  them 
till  her  removal  to  Dunreath  Abbey,  when  she  dropped  it,  lest  her 
residence  there  should  be  discovered;  but  such  an  opportunity  of 
writting  to  them,  by  a person  who  would  answer  all  their  in- 
quiries concerning  her,  she  could  not  neglect ; besides,  she  con- 
tinued, they  were  the  most  agreeable  and  hospitable  people  she 
had  ever  known,  and  she  was  convinced  would  not  suffer  Aman- 
da to  sleep  at  an  inn,  but  would  probably  keep  her  a few  days  at 
their  house,  and  then  escort  her  part  of  the  way. 

Averse  to  the  society  of  strangers,  in  her  present  frame  of  mind 
Amanda  said  she  would  certainly  take  the  letter,  but  could  not 
possibly  present  it  herself.  She  thanked  Mrs.  Duncan  for  her 
solicitous  care  about  her ; but  added,  whether  she  lodged  at  an 
inn  or  private  house  for  one  night  was  of  little  consequence;  and 
as  to  her  journey  being  retarded,  it  was  what  she  never  could  al- 
low. 

Mrs.  Duncan  declared  she  was  too  fond  of  solitude,  but  did  not 
argue  the  point  with  her.  She  wrote  the  letter,  however. 

They  took  leave  of  each  other  at  night,  as  the  chaise  was  or- 
dered at  an  early  hour.  As  Mrs.  Duncan  folded  Amanda  to  her 
heart,  she  again  besought  her  to  hasten  back,  declaring  that 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


399 


neither  she  nor  her  little  girls  would  be  themselves  till  she  re- 
turned. 

At  an  early  hour  Amanda  entered  the  chaise;  and,  as  she 
stepped  into  it,  could  not  forbear  casting  a sad  and  lingering 
look  upon  a distant  prospect,  where,  the  foregoing  evening,  a 
dusky  grove  of  firs  had  been  pointed  out  to  her,  as  encompassing 
the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s  castle.  Ah ! how  did  her  heart  sicken  at 
the  idea  of  the  event,  which  either  had  or  was  soon  to  take  place 
in  that  castle ! Ah ! how  did  she  tremble  at  the  idea  of  her  long 
and  lonesome  journey,  and  the  difficulties  she  might  encounter 
on  its  termination ! How  sad,  how  solitary,  did  she  feel  herself ! 
Her  mournful  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  saw  the  rustic  families 
hastening  to  their  daily  labors ; for  her  mind  involuntarily  drew 
comparison  between  their  situation  and  her  own.  And,  ah ! how 
sweet  would  their  labor  be  to  her,  she  thought,  if  she,  like  them, 
was  encompassed  with  the  social  ties  of  life.  Fears,  before  un- 
thought of,  rose  in  her  mind,  from  which  her  timid  nature  shrunk 
appalled.  Should  Rushbrook  be  absent  from  London,  or  should 
he  not  answer  her  expectations ; but,  ‘ I deserve  the  disappoint- 
ment,’ cried  she,  ‘ if  I thus  anticipate  it.  Oh!  let  me  not  be  over 
exquisite 

‘ To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evils, 

oppressed  as  I already  am  with  real  ones.  ’ She  endeavored  to 
exert  her  spirits.  She  tried  to  amuse  them  by  attending  to  the 
objects  she  passed,  and  gradually  they  lost  somewhat  of  their 
heaviness.  On  arriving  in  London,  she  designed  going  to  the 
haberdasher’s,  where,  it  may  be  remembered,  she  had  once  met 
Miss  Rushbrook;  here  she  hoped  to  procure  lodgings,  also  a direc- 
tion to  Rushbrook.  It  was  about  five  when  she  stopped  for  the 
night,  as  the  shortened  days  of  autumn  would  not  permit  a longer 
journey,  had  the  tired  horses,  which  was  not  the  case,  been  able 
to  proceed.  They  stopped  at  the  inn,  which  Mrs.  Duncan  had 
taken  care  to  know  would  be  the  last  stage  of  the  first  day’s  jour- 
ney; a small,  but  neat  and  comfortable  house,  romantically  situ- 
ated at  the  foot  of  a steep  hill,  planted  with  ancient  firs,  and 
crowned  with  the  straggling  remains  of  what  appeared  to  have 
been  a religious  house,  from  a small  cross  which  yet  stood  over  a 
broken  gateway.  A stream  trickled  from  the  hill,  though  its 
murmurs  through  the  thick  underwood  alone  denoted  its  rising 
there,  and  winding  round  the  inn,  flowed  in  meanders  through  a 
spacious  vale,  of  which  the  inn  was  not  the  lone  inhabitant,  for 
cottages  appeared  on  either  side,  and  one  large  mansion  stood  in 
the  center,  whose  superior  size  and  neat  plantations  proclaimed  it 
master  of  the  whole.  This  was  really  the  case,  for  immediately 
on  entering  the  inn  Amanda  had  inquired  about  the  Macqueen 
family,  to  whom  Mrs.  Duncan’s  letter  was  directed,  and  learned 


400 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


that  they  inhabited  this  house,  and  owned  the  grounds  to  a large 
extent  surrounding  it.  Amanda  gave  Mrs.  Duncan’s  letter  to 
the  landlady,  and  begged  she  would  send  it  directly  to  Mrs.  Mac- 
queen.  The  inn  was  without  company ; and  its  quiet  retirement, 
together  with  the  appearance  of  the  owners,  an  elderly  pair, 
soothed  the  agitated  spirits  of  Amanda.  Her  little  dinner  was 
soon  served  up ; but  when  over,  and  she  was  left  to  herself,  all 
the  painful  ideas  she  had  sedulously,  and  with  some  degree  of 
success,  attempted  to  banish  from  her  mind  in  the  morning,  by 
attending  to  the  objects  she  passed,  now  returned  with  full,  or 
rather  aggravated,  force.  Books,  those  pleasing,  and,  in  affliction, 
alleviating  resources,  she  had  forgotten  to  bring  along  with  her, 
and  all  that  the  inn  contained  she  had  been  shown  on  a shelf  in 
the  apartment  she  occupied,  but  without  finding  one  that  could 
possibly  fix  her  attention  or  change  her  melancholy  ideas ; a ram- 
ble, though  the  evening  was  uninviting,  she  prefered  to  the  pas- 
sive indulgence  of  her  sorrow ; and  having  ordered  tea  against  her 
return,  and  invited  the  landlady  to  it,  she  was  conducted  to  the 
garden  of  the  inn,  from  whence  she  ascended  the  hill  by  a wind- 
ing path.  She  made  her  way  with  difficulty  through  a path,  which, 
seldom  trodden,  was  half  choked  with  weeds  and  brambles ; the 
wind  blew  cold  and  sharp  around  her,  and  the  gloom  of  closing 
day  was  heightened  by  thick  and  lowering  clouds  that  involved 
the  distant  mountains  in  one  dark  shade.  Near  those  mountains 
she  knew  the  domain  of  Roslin  lay ; and  from  the  bleak  summit 
of  the  hill  she  surveyed  them  as  a lone  mourner  would  survey 
the  sad  spot  in  which  the  pleasure  of  his  heart  was  buried.  For- 
getting the  purpose  for  which  she  had  walked  out,  she  leaned  in 
melancholy  reverie  against  a fragment  of  the  ruined  building, 
nor  heard  approaching  footsteps  till  the  voice  of  her  host  sud- 
denly broke  upon  her  ear.  She  started,  and  perceived  him  ac- 
companied by  two  ladies,  who,  he  directly  informed  her,  were  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Macqueen.  They  both  went  up  to  Amanda,  and  after  the 
usual  compliments  of  introduction  were  over,  Mrs.  Macqueen  took 
her  hand,  and,  with  a smile  of  cordial  good  nature,  invited  her  to 
her  house  for  the  night,  declaring  that  the  pleasure  she  received 
from  Mrs.  Duncan’s  letter  was  heightened  by  being  introduced 
through  its  means  to  a person  that  lady  mentioned  as  her  partic- 
ular friend.  Miss  Macqueen  seconded  her  mother’s  invitation, 
and  said,  ‘ the  moment  they  had  read  the  letter  they  had  come 
out  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  her  back  with  them.’  ‘ Ay,  ay,’ 
said  the  host  good-humoredly  (who  was  himself  descended  from 
one  of  the  inferior  branches  of  the  Macqueens),  ‘ this  is  the  way, 
ladies,  you  always  rob  me  of  my  guests.  In  good  faith,  I think 
I must  soon  change  my  dwelling,  and  go  higher  up  the  valley.’ 

Conscious  from  her  utter  dejection  that  she  would  be  unable,  as 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


401 


she  wished,  to  participate  in  the  pleasures  of  conversation, 
Amanda  declined  the  invitation,  alleging,  as  an  excuse  for  doing 
so,  her  intention  of  proceeding  on  her  journey  the  next  morning 
by  dawn  of  day. 

Mrs.  Macqueen  declared  that  she  should  act  as  she  pleased  in 
that  respect,  and  both  she  and  her  daughter  renewed  their  entreat- 
ies for  her  company  with  such  earnestness  that  Amanda  could 
no  longer  refuse  them  ; and  they  returned  to  the  inn,  where 
Amanda  begged  they  would  excuse  her  absence  a few  minutes, 
and  retired  to  pay  her  entertainers,  and  repeat  her  charges  to  the 
postilion  to  be  at  the  house  as  soon  as  he  should  think  any  of  the 
family  stirring.  She  then  returned  to  the  ladies,  and  attended 
them  to  their  mansion,  which  might  well  be  termed  the  seat  of 
hospitality.  The  family  consisted  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Macqueen, 
four  sons  and  six  daughters,  now  all  past  childhood,  and  united 
to  one  another  by  the  strictest  ties  of  duty  and  affection.  After 
residing  a few  years  at  Edinburgh,  for  the  improvement  of  the 
young  people,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Macqueen  returned  to  their  mansion 
in  the  valley,  where  a large  fortune  was  spent  in  the  enjoyment 
of  agreeable  society  and  acts  of  benevolence.  Mrs.  Macqueen 
informed  Amanda,  during  the  walk,  that  all  her  family  were  now 
assembled  together,  as  her  sons,  who  were  already  engaged  in 
different  professions  and  businesses  in  various  parts  of  the.  king- 
dom, made  it  a constant  rule  to  pay  a visit  every  autumn  to  their 
friends.  It  was  quite  dark  before  the  ladies  reached  the  house, 
and  the  wind  was  sharp  and  cold,  so  that  Amanda  found  the  light 
and  warmth  of  the  drawing  room,  to  which  she  was  conducted, 
extremely  agreeable.  The  thick  window  curtains  and  carpeting, 
and  the  enlivening  fire,  bid  defiance  to  the  sharpness  of  the  moun- 
tain blast  which  howled  without,  and  rendered  the  comforts 
within  more  delectable  by  the  effect  of  the  contrast.  In  the 
drawing  room  were  assembled  Mr.  Macqueen,  two  of  his  daugh- 
ters, and  half  a dozen  ladies  and  gentlemen,  to  whom  Amanda 
was  presented,  and  they  in  return  to  her.  In  the  countenance  of 
Mr.  Macqueen,  Amanda  perceived  a benevolence  equal  to  that 
which  irradiated  his  wife’s.  Both  were  past  the  prime  of  life 
but  in  him  only  was  its  decline  visible.  He  was  lately  grown  so 
infirm  as  to  be  unable  to  move  without  assistance.  Yet  was  his 
relish  for  society  undiminished  ; and  in  his  armchair,  his  legs 
muffled  in  flannel,  and  supported  by  pillows,  he  promoted  as 
mucJH  as  ever  the  mirth  of  his  family,  and  saw  with  delight  the 
dance  go  on  in  which  he  had  once  mixed  with  his  children.  Mrs. 
Macqueen  appeared  but  as  the  eldest  sister  of  her  daughters  ; and 
between  them  all  Amanda  perceived  a strong  family  likeness. 
They  were  tall,  well,  but  not  delicately  made  ; handsome,  yef 
Saore  mdebted  to  the  animation  of  their  countenances  than  tc 


402 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


regularity  of  features  for  beauty,  which  was  rendered  luxuriant 
by  a quantity  of  rich  auburn  hair,  that,  unrestrained  by  super- 
fluous ornaments,  fell  in  long  ringlets  on  their  shoulders,  and 
curled  with  a sweet  simplicity  on  their  white  polished  foreheads. 

‘ So  the  boys  and  girls  are  not  yet  returned,’  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
queen,  addressing  one  of  her  daughters.  ‘ I am  afraid  they  have 
taken  their  friends  too  far.’  She  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  a 
party  was  heard  under  the  windows  laughing  and  talking,  who 
ascended  the  stairs  immediately  in  a kind  of  gay  tumult.  The 
drawing-room  door  opened,  and  a lady  entered,  of  a most  pre- 
possessing appearance,  though  advanced  in  life,  and  was  followed 
by  a number  of  young  people. 

But,  oh  ! what  were  the  powerful  emotions  of  Amanda’s  soul, 
when  among  them  she  beheld  Lady  Araminta  Dormer  and  Lord 
Mortimer  1 Shocked,  confused,  confounded,  she  strained  an  eye 
of  agony  upon  them,  as  if  with  the  hope  of  detecting  an  illusion, 
then  dropped  her  head,  anxious  to  conceal  herself,  though  she 
was  fatally  convinced  she  could  be  but  a few  minutes  unobserved 
by  them.  Never,  amid  the  many  trying  moments  of  her  life, 
had  she  experienced  one  more  dreadful.  To  behold  Lord  Morti- 
mer, when  she  knew  his  esteem  for  her  was  lost,  at  a period,  too, 
when  he  was  hastening  to  be  united  to  another  woman,  oh  ! it 
was  agony,  torture  in  the  extreme  ! Vainly  did  she  reflect  she 
deserved  not  to  lose  his  esteem.  This  consciousness  could  not  at 
present  inspire  her  with  fortitude.  Her  heart  throbbed  as  if  it 
would  burst  ; her  bosom,  her  frame  trembled,  and  she  alternately 
experienced  the  glow  of  confusion  and  the  chill  of  dismay — dis- 
may at  the  idea  of  meeting  the  silent  but  expressive  reproach  of 
Lord  Mortimer’s  eye  for  her  imaginary  errors — dismay  at  the  idea 
of  meeting  the  contempt  of  his  aunt,  who  was  the  lady  that  first 
entered  the  room,  and  sister. 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 

It  would  raise  your  pity  but  to  see  the  tears 
Force  through  her  snowy  lids  their  melting  course. 

To  lodge  themselves  on  her  red  murm’ring  lips, 

That  talk  such  mournful  things  ; when  straight  a gale 
Of  starting  sighs  carries  those  pearls  away, 

As  dews  by  winds  are  wafted  from  the  flowers.— Lee. 

Bitterly  did  Amanda  regret  having  been  tempted  from  the 
inn,  and  gratefully  would  she  have  acquitted  fortune  of  half  its 
malignancy  to  her,  had  she  been  able  to  steal  back  unnoticeoi. 
The  party  that  entered,  engaged  in  talking  to  those- they  found  in 
the  drawing  room — laughing  and  describing  their  ramble,  which 
Lady  Araminta  said  was  in  the  style  of  Will-o’- the- Wisp  (over 
brakes  and  through  briers) — were  some  time  before  they  observed 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


403 


Amanda  ; but  soon,  ah  ! how  much  too  soon,  did  she  perceive 
Mrs.  Macqueen  approaching  to  introduce  those  of  her  family  who 
were  just  returned, 

‘ The  trying  moment  is  come  ! ’ cried  Amanda.  * Oh  ! let  me 
not  by  my  confusion  look  as  if  I really  was  the  guilty  thing  I am 
supposed  to  be.’  She  endeavored  to  collect  herself,  and  rose  to 
meet  the  young  Macqueens,  by  a timid  glance  perceiving  that  they 
yet  hid  her  from  the  eyes  she  most  dreaded  to  encounter.  She 
was  unable,  however,  to  return  their  compliments,  except  by  a 
faint  smile,  and  was  again  sinking  upon  her  seat— for  her  frame 
trembled  universally — when  Mrs.  Macqueen,  taking  her  hand, 
led  her  forward,  and  presented  her  to  Lady  Martha  and  Lady 
Araminta  Dormer.  It  may  be  remembered  that  Lady  Martha 
had  never  before  seen  Amanda.  She  therefore  gave  her,  as  Miss 
Donald,  a benignant  smile,  which,  had  she  supposed  her  Miss 
Fitzalan,  would  have  been  lost  in  a contemptuous  frown.  Sel- 
dom, indeed,  had  she  seen  a form  more  interesting  than  our 
heroine’s.  Her  mourning  habit  set  off  the  elegance  of  her  form 
and  the  languid  delicacy  of  her  complexion,  while  the  sad  ex- 
pression of  her  countenance  denoted  that  habit  but  the  shadow  cf 
the  unseen  grief  which  dwelt  within  her  soul.  Her  large  blue 
eyes  were  half  concealed  by  their  long  lashes,  but  the  beams 
which  stole  from  beneath  those  fringed  curtains  were  full  of 
sweetness  and  sensibility.  Her  fine  hair,  discomposed  by  the 
jolting  of  the  carriage  and  the  blowing  of  the  wind,  had  partly 
escaped  the  braid  on  which  it  was  turned  under  her  hat,  and  hung 
in  long  ringlets  of  glossy  brown  upon  her  shoulders  and  careless 
curls  about  her  face,  giving  a sweet  simplicity  to  it,  which  height- 
ened its  beauty.  How  different  was  the  look  she  received  from 
Lady  Araminta  to  that  she  had  received  from  Lady  Martha  ! In 
the  expressive  countenance  of  the  former  she  read  surprise,  con- 
tempt, and  anger  ; her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  unusual  color, 
her  eyes  sparkled  with  uncommon  luster,  and  their  quick  glances 
pierced  the  palpitating  heart  of  Amanda,  who  heard  her  repeat, 
as  if  involuntarily,  the  name  of  Donald.  Ah  ! how  dreadful  was 
the  sound  to  her  ear  ! Ah  ! how  sad  a confirmation  did  it  con- 
vey— that  every  suspicion  to  her  prejudice  would  now  be  strength- 
ened. ‘Ah  ! why,  why,’  said  she  to  herself,  ‘was  I tempted  to 
take  this  hated  name  ? Why  did  I not  prefer  incurring  any 
danger  to  which  my  own  might  have  exposed  me,  rather  than 
assume  anything  like  deceit  ? ’ Happily  the  party  were  too  much 
engrossed  by  one  another  to  heed  the  words  or  manner  of  Lady 
Araminta. 

Amanda  withdrew  her  hand  from  Mrs.  Macqueen,  and  moved 
tremblingly  to  her  seat  ; but  that  lady,  with  a politeness  poor 
Amanda  had  reason  to  think  officious,  stopped  her.  ‘Miss 


404 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


Donald — Lord  Mortimer ! ’ said  she.  Amanda  raised  her  head, 
but  not  her  eyes,  and  neither  saw  nor  heard  his  lordship.  The 
scene  she  had  dreaded  was  over,  and  she  felt  a little  relieved  at 
the  idea.  The  haughty  glance  of  Lady  Araminta  dwelt  upon 
her  mind,  and,  when  agitation  had  a Jittle  subsided,  she  stole  a 
look  at  her,  and  saw  Mrs.  Macqueen  sitting  between  her  and  Lady 
Martha ; and  from  the  altered  countenance  of  the  latter,  she  in- 
stantly conjectured  she  had  been  informed  by  her  niece  of  her 
real  name.  She  also  conjectured,  from  the  glances  directed  to- 
ward her,  that  she  was  the  subject  of  conversation,  and  concluded 
it  was  begun  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  whether  Mrs.  Mac- 
queen  knew  anything  of  her  real  history. 

From  these  glances  she  quickly  withdrew  her  own,  and  one  of 
the  young  Macqueens,  drawing  a chair  near  hers,  began  a con- 
versation with  all  that  spirit  and  vivacity  which  distinguished 
his  family.  The  mind  of  Amanda  was  too  much  occupied  by  its 
concerns  to  be  able  to  attend  to  anything  foreign  to  them.  She 
scarcely  knew  what  he  said,  and  when  she  did  reply  it  was  only 
by  monosyllables.  At  last  a question,  enforced  with  peculiar 
earnestness,  roused  her  from  this  inattention,  and  blushing  for  it, 
she  looked  at  the  young  man,  and  perceived  him  regarding  her 
with  something  like  wonder.  She  now,  for  the  first  time,  con- 
sidered the  '^strange  appearance  she  must  make  among  the  com- 
pany, if  she  did  not  collect  and  compose  her  spirits.  The  family, 
too,  to  whom  she  was,  she  could  not  help  thinking,  so  unfortu- 
nately introduced,  from  their  hospitality,  merited  attention  and 
respect  from  her.  She  resolved,  therefore,  to  struggle  with  her 
feelings,  and,  as  an  apology  for  her  absent  manner,  complained, 
and  not  without  truth,  of  a headache. 

Young  Macqueen,  with  friendly  warmth,  said  he  would  ac- 
quaint his  mother,  or  one  of  his  sisters,  with  her  indisposition, 
and  procure  some  remedy  for  it  ; but  she  insisted  he  should  on 
no  account  disturb  the  company,  assuring  him  she  would  soon 
be  well;  she  then  endeavored  to  support  a conversation  with 
him  ; but,  ah  ! how  often  did  she  pause  in  the  midst  of  what  she 
was  saying,  as  the  sweet,  insinuating  voice  of  Mortimer  reached 
her  ear,  who,  with  his  native  elegance  and  spirit,  was  participat- 
ing in  the  lively  conversation  then  going  forward.  In  hers  with 
young  Macqueen,  she  was  soon  interrupted  by  his  father,  who, 
in  a good-humored  manner  told  his  son  he  would  no  longer 
suffer  him  to  engross  Miss  Donald  to  himself,  and  desired  him  to 
lead  her  to  a chair  near  his. 

Young  Macqueen  immediately  arose,  and  taking  Amanda’s 
hand,  led  her  to  his  father,  by  whom  he  seated  her ; and  by 
whom  on  the  other  side  sat  Lady  Martha  Dormer ; then  with  a 
modest  gallantry  declared  it  was  the  first  time  he  ever  felt  re* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


405 


luctance  to  obey  [bis  father’s  commands,  and  hoped  his  ready 
acquiescence  to  them  would  be  rewarded  with  speedy  permission 
to  resume  his  conversation  with  Miss  Donald.  Amanda  had 
hitherto  prevented  her  eyes  from  wandering,  though  they  could 
not  exclude  the  form  of  Lord  Mortimer ; she  had  not  yet  seen 
his  face,  and  still  strove  to  avoid  seeing  it.  Mr.  Macqueen  began 
with  various  inquiries  relative  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  to  which  Amanda, 
as  she  was  prepared  for  them,  answered  with  tolerable  composure. 
Suddenly  he  dropped  the  subject  of  his  relation,  and  asked 
Amanda  from  what  branch  of  the  Donalds  she  was  descended. 
A question  so  unexpected,  shocked,  dismayed,  and  overwhelmed 
her  with  confusion.  She  made  no  reply  till  the  question  was  re- 
peated, when  in  a low  and  faltering  voice,  her  face  covered  with 
blushes,  and  almost  buried  in  her  bosom,  she  said  she  did  not 
know. 

‘Well,’  cried  he,  again  changing  his  discourse,  after  looking  at 
her  a few  minutes,  ‘ I do  not  know  any  girl  but  yourself  would 
tak6  such  pains  to  hide  such  a pair  of  eyes  as  you  have.  I sup- 
pose you  are  conscious  of  the  mischief  they  have  the  power  of  do- 
ing, and,  therefore,  it  is  from  compassion  to  mankind  you  try  to 
conceal  them.’ 

Amanda  blushed  yet  more  deeply  than  before  at  finding  her 
downcast  looks  were  noticed.  She  turned  hers  with  quickness  to  Mr. 
Macqueen,  who,  having  answered  a question  of  Lady  Martha’s, 
thus  proceeded : ‘ And  so  you  do  not  know  from  which  branch  of 
the  Donalds  you  are  descended  ? Perhaps  now  you  only  forget, 
and  if  I was  to  mention  them  one  by  one,  your  memory  might  be 
refreshed  ; but  first  let  me  ask  your  father’s  surname,  and  what 
countrywoman  he  married,  for  the  Donalds  generally  married 
among  each  other  ? ’ 

Oh  ! how  forcibly  was  Amanda  at  this  moment  convinced,  if  in- 
deed her  pure  soul  wanted  such  conviction,  of  the  pain,  the  shame 
of  deception,  let  the  motive  be  what  it  may  which  prompts  it. 
Involuntarily  were  her  eyes  turned  from  Mr.  Macqueen  as  he 
paused  for  a reply  to  his  last  question,  and  at  the  moment  encoun- 
tered those  of  Lord  Mortimer,  who  sat  directly  opposite  to  her,  and 
with  deep  attention  regarded  her,  as  if  anxious  to  hear  how  she 
would  extricate  herself  from  the  embarrassments  her  assumed 
name  had  plunged  her  into. 

Her  confusion,  her  blushes,  her  too  evident  distress,  were  all 
imputed  by  Mrs.  Macqueen  to  fatigue  at  listening  to  such  tedious 
inquiries.  She  knew  her  husband’s  only  foible  was  an  eager  de- 
sire to  trace  everyone’s  pedigree.  In  order,  therefore,  to  relieve 
Amanda  from  her  present  situation,  she  proposed  a party  of 
whist,  at  which  Mr.  Macqueen  often  amused  himself,  and  for 
which  the  table  and  cards  were  already  laid  before  him.  As  she 


406 


THB  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


took  up  the  cards  to  hand  them  to  those  who  were  to  draw,  she 
whispered  Amanda  to  go  over  to  the  tea  table. 

Amanda  required  no  repetition  now,  and  thanking  Mrs.  Mac- 
queen  in  her  heart  for  the  relief  she  afforded  her,  went  to  the 
table  around  which  almost  all  the  young  people  were  crowded  ; 
so  great  was  the  mirth  going  on  among  them,  that  Miss  Macqueen, 
the  gravest  of  the  set,  in  vaki  called  upon  her  sisters  to  assist  her 
; in  serving  the  trays,  which  the  servants  handed  about,  and  Mrs. 
Macqueen  had  more  than  once  called  for.  Miss  Macqueen  made 
room  for  Amanda  by  herself,  [and  Amanda,  anxious  to  do  anything 
which  could  keep  her  from  encountering  the  eyes  she  dreaded,  re- 
quested to  be  employed  in  assisting  her,  and  was  deputed  to  fill 
out  the  coffee.  After  the  first  performance  of  her  task,  Miss  Mac- 
queen, in  a whispering  voice,  said  to  Amanda,  ‘ Do  you  know  we 
are  all  here  more  than  half  in  love  with  Lord  Mortimer.  He  is 
certainly  very  handsome,  and  his  manner  is  quite  as  pleasing  as 
his  looks,  for  he  has  none  of  that  foppery  and  conceit  which  hand- 
some men  so  generally  have,  and  nothing  but  the  knowledge  of 
his  engagement  could  keep  us  from  pulling  caps  about  him.  You 
have  heard,  to  be  sure,  of  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland,  the  Mar- 
quis of  Roslin’s  daughter  ; well,  he  is  going  to  be  married  to  her 
immediately  ; she  and  the  marquis  and  the  marchioness  were  here 
the  other  day.  She  is  not  to  be  compared  to  Lord  Mortimer,  but 
she  has  what  will  make  her  be  considered  very  handsome  in  the 
eyes  of  many — namely,  a large  fortune.  They  only  stopped  to 
breakfast  here,  and  ever  since  we  have  been  on  the  watch  for  the 
rest  of  the  party,  who  arrived  this  morning,  and  were,  on  Lady 
Martha’s  account,  whom  the  Journey  had  fatigued,  prevailed  on 
to  stay  till  to-morrow.  I am  very  glad  you  came  while  they  were 
here.  I think  both  ladies  charming  women,  and  Lady  Araminta 
quite  as  handsome  as  her  brother  ; but  see,  ’ she  continued,  touch- 
ing Amanda’s  hand,  ‘ the  conquering  hero  comes  ! ’ Lord  Morti- 
mer with  difficulty  made  his  way  round  the  table,  and  accepted  a 
seat  by  Miss  Macqueen,  which  she  eagerly  offered  him,  and  which 
she  contrived  to  procure  by  sitting  closer  to  Amanda.  To  her 
next  neighbor,  a fine  , lively  girl,  Amanda  now  turned,  and  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  her  ; but  from  this  she  was  soon 
called  by  Miss  Macqueen,  requesting  her  to  pour  out  a cup  of  cof- 
fee for  Lord  Mortimer. 

Amanda  obeyed,  and  he  rose  to  receive  it  ; her  hand  trembled 
as  she  presented  it.  She  looked  not  in  his  face,  but  she  thought 
his  hand  was  not  quite  steady.  She  saw  him  lay  the  cup  on  the 
table,  and  bend  his  eyes  to  the  ground.  She  heard  Miss  Macqueen 
address  him  twice  ere  she  received  an  answer,  and  then  it  was  so 
abrupt’that  it  seemed  the  effect  of  sudden  recollection.  Miss  Mac- 
queen now  grew  almost  as  inattentive  to  the  table  a?  her  sisters, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


40' 


and  Mrs.  Macqueen  was  obliged  to  come  over  to  know  what  they 
were  all  about.  At  length  the  business  of  the  tea  table  was  de- 
dared  over  ; and  almost  at  the  same  moment  the  sound  of  a violin 
was  heard  from  an  adjoining  room,  playing  an  English  country 
dance,  in  which  style  of  dancing  the  Macqueens  had  been  instructed 
in  Edinburgh,  and  chose  this  evening  in  compliment  to  their 
guests.  The  music  was  a signal  foi^  universal  motion ; all  in  a 
moment  was  bustle  and  confusion.  The  young  men  instantly  se- 
lected their  partners,  who  seemed  ready  to  dance  from  one  roonri 
to  another.  The  young  Macqueen,  who  had  been  so  assiduous 
about  Amanda,  now  came,  and  taking  bjer  hand,  as  if  her  danc- 
ing was  a thing  of  course,  was  leading  her  after  the  rest  of  the 
party,  when  she  drew  back,  declaring  she  could  not  dance.  Sur- 
prised and  disappointed,  he  stood  looking  on  her  in  silence,  as  if 
irresolute  whether  he  should  not  attempt  to  change  her  resolution. 
At  last  he  spoke,  and  requested  she  would  not  mortify  him  by  a 
refusal. 

Mrs.  Macqueen,  hearing  her  son’s  request,  came  forward  and 
joined  it.  Amanda  pleaded  her  headache. 

‘ Do,  my  dear,  ’ said  Mrs.  Macqueen,  ‘ try  one  dance  ; my 
girls  will  tell  you  dancing  is  a sovereign  remedy  for  everything.’ 
It  was  painful  to  Amanda  to  refuse  ; but,  scarcely  able  to  stand, 
she  was  utterly  unable  to  dance  ; had  even  her  strength  per- 
mitted her  so  to  do,  she  could  not  have  supported  the  idea  of 
mingling  in  the  set  with  Lord  Mortimer,  the  glance  of  whose 
eye  she  never  caught  without  a throb  in  her  heart  which  shook 
her  whole  frame.  One  of  the  Miss  Macqueens  ran  into  the 
room  exclaiming  : ‘ Lord,  Colin,  what  are  you  about  ? Lord 
Mortimer  and  my  sister  have  already  led  off ; do,  pray,  make 
haste  and  join  us,’  and  away  she  ran  again. 

‘Let  me  no  longer  detain  you,’  said  Amanda,  withdrawing  her 
hand.  Young  Macqueen,  finding  her  indexible,  at  length  went 
off  to  seek  a partner.  He  was  as  fond  of  dancing  as  his  sis- 
ters, and  feared  he  should  not  procure  one  ; but  luckily  there 
were  fewer  gentlemen  than  ladies  present,  and  a lady  having 
stood  up  with  his  youngest  sister,  he  easily  prevailed  on  her  to 
change  her  partner. 

‘We  will  go  into  the  dancing  room,  if  you  please,’  said 
Mrs.  Macqueen  to  Amanda  ; ‘ that  will  amuse  without  fatiguing 
you.’  Amanda  would  rather  not  have  gone,  but  she  could  not 
say  no  ; and  they  proceeded  to  it.  Lord  Mortimer  had  just 
concluded  the  dance,  and  was  standing  near  the  door  in  a pen- 
sive attitude.  Miss  Macqueen  being  too  much  engrossed  by 
something  she  was  saying  to  the  young  lady  next  to  her,  to  mind 
him.  The  moment  he  perceived  Amanda  enter,  he  again  ap- 
proached his  partner,  and  began  chatting  in  a lively  mannei 


408 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


to  her.  Amanda  and  Mrs.  Macqueen  sat  down  together,  and, 
in  listening  to  the  conversation  of  that  lady,  Amanda  found  her- 
self insensibly  drawn  from  a too  painful  attention  to  surround- 
ing  objects.  On  expressing  the  pleasure  which  a mind  of  sen- 
sibility must  feel  on  witnessing  such  family  happiness  as  Mrs. 
Macqueen  possessed,  that  lady  said  she  had  reason  indeed  to 
be  grateful  to  Heaven,  and  was  truly  so  for  her  domestic  com~ 
forts.  ‘You  see  us  now,’  she  continued,  ‘ in  our  very  gayest 
season,  because  of  my  son’s  company  ; but  we  are  seldom  dull. 
Though  summer  is  delightful,  we  never  think  the  winter  tedious ; 
yet  though  we  love  amusement,  I assure  you  we  dislike  dissi- 
pation. The  mornings  are  appropriated  to  business,  and  the 
evenings  to  recreation.  All  the  work  of  the  family  goes  through 
the  hands  of  my  daughters,  and  they  wear  nothing  ornamental 
which  they  do  not  make  themselves.  Assisted  by  their  good 
neighbors,  they  are  enabled  to  diversify  their . amusements  ; the 
dance  succeeds  the  concert  ; sometimes  small  plays,  and  now 
and  then  little  dramatic  entertainments.  About  two  years  ago 
they  performed  the  “ Winter’s  Tale”  ; their  poor  father  was  not 
then  in  his  present  situation.’  Mrs.  Macqueen  sighed,  paused 
a minute,  and  then  proceeded:  ‘Time  must  take  something 
from  us  ; but  I should  and  do  bless,  with  heartfelt  gratitude,  the 
power  which  only,  by  its  stealing  hand,  has  made  me  feel  the 
lot  of  human  nature.  Mr.  Macqueen,’  continued  she,  ‘at  the 
time  I mentioned,  was  full  of  spirits  and  performed  the  part  of 
Autolycus,  They  made  me  take  the  character  of  the  good 
Paulina,  By  thus  mixing  in  the  amusements  of  our  children, 
we  have  added  to  their  love  and  reverence  perfect  confidence 
and  esteem,  and  find,  when  our  presence  is  wanting,  the  diver- 
sion, let  it  be  what  it  may,  wants  something  to  render  it  com- 
plete. They  are  now  about  acting  the  ‘ ‘ Gentle  Shepherd.”  Several 
rehearsals  have  already  taken  place  in  our  great  barn,  which  is 
the  theater.  On  these  occasions  one  of  my  sons  leads  the  band, 
another  paints  the  scenes,  and  Colin,  your  rejected  partner,  acts 
the  part  of  prompter.’  Here  this  conversation,  so  pleasing  to 
Amanda,  and  interesting  to  Mrs.  Macqueen,  was  interrupted  by  a 
message  from  the  drawing  room,  to  inform  the  latter  the  rubber 
was  over,  and  a new  set  wanted  to  cut  in. 

‘I  will  return  as  soon  as  possible,’  said  Mrs.  Macqueen,  as  she 
was  quitting  her  seat.  If  Amanda  had  not  dreaded  the  looks  of 
Lady  Martha  almost  as  much  as  those  of  Lord  Mortimer  or  Lady 
Araminta,  she  would  have  followed  her  to  the  drawing  room. 
As  this  was  the  case,  she  resolved  on  remaining  in  her  present 
situation.  It  was  some  time  ere  she  was  observed  by  the  young 
Macqueens.  At  last  Miss  Macqueen  came  over  to  her.  ‘ I de- 
clare,’ said  she,  ‘ you  look  so  sad  and  solitary,  I wish  you  could 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


409 


be  prevailed  on  to  dance.  Do  try  this ; it  is  a very  fine,  lively 
one,  and  take  Flora  for  your  partner,  who,  you  see,  has  sat  in  a 
corner  quite  discomposed  since  she  lost  her  partner,  and  by  the 
next  set  Colin  will  be  disengaged.’ 

Amanda  declared  she  could  not  dance,  and  Miss  Macqueen  be- 
ing called  to  her  place  at  the  instant,  she  was  again  left  to  herself. 
Miss  Macqueen,  however,  continued  to  come  and  chat  with  her 
whenever  she  could  do  so  without  losing  any  part  of  the  dance. 
At  last  Lord  Mortimer  followed  her.  The  eyes  of  Amanda  were 
involuntarily  bent  to  the  ground  when  she  saw  him  approach, 
‘ You  are  an  absolute  runaway,’  cried  he  to  Miss  Macqueen ; ‘ how 
do  you  suppose  I will  excuse  your  frequent  desertions  ? ’ 

‘ Why,  Miss  Donald  is  so  lonely,  ’ said  she. 

‘ See,’  cried  he,  with  quickness,  ‘ your  sister  beckons  you  to  her. 
Suffer  me  [taking  her  hand]  to  lead  you  to  her.’ 

Amanda  looked  up  as  they  moved  from  her,  and  saw  Lord 
Mortimer’s  head  half  turned  back ; but  the  instant  she  perceived 
him  he  averted  it,  and  took  no  further  notice  of  her.  When  the 
set  was  finished.  Miss  Macqueen  returned  to  Amanda,  and  was 
followed  by  some  of  her  brothers  and  sisters.  Some  of  the  gentle- 
men also  approached  Amanda  and  requested  the  honor  of  her 
hand,  but  she  was  steady  in  refusing  all.  Rich  wines,  sweet- 
meats, and  warm  lemonade  were  now  handed  about  in  profusion, 
and  the  strains  of  the  violin  were  succeeded  by  those  of  the  bag- 
pipe, played  by  the  family  musician,  venerable  in  his  appearance, 
and  habited  in  the  ancient  Highland  dress.  With  as  much 
satisfaction  to  himself  as  to  his  Scotch  auditors,  he  played  a lively 
Scotch  reel,  which  in  a moment  brought  two  of  the  Miss  Mac- 
queens  and  two  gentlemen  forward,  and  they  continued  the  dance 
till  politeness  induced  them  to  stop,  that  one  might  be  begun  in 
which  the  rest  of  the  party  could  join.  Dancing  continued  in  this 
manner  with  little  intermission,  but  whenever  there  was  an  in- 
terval, the  young  Macqueens  paid  every  attention  to  Amanda; 
and  on  her  expressing  her  admiration  of  the  Scotch  music,  made 
it  a point  that  she  should  mention  some  favorite  airs,  that  they 
might  be  played  for  her;  but  these  airs,  the  lively  dances,  the 
animated  conversation,  and  the  friendly  attentions  paid  her  could 
not  remove  her  dejection,  and  with  truth  they  might  have  said: 

That  nothing  could  a charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger’s  woe. 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Macqueen  was  the  signal  for  'the  dance 
being  ended.  She  made  the  young  people  sit  down  to  refresh 
themselves  before  supper,  and  apologized  to  Amanda  for  not  re- 
turning to  her;  but  said  Lady  Martha  Dormer  had  engaged  her 
in  a conversation  which  she  could  not  interrupt.  At  last  they 
were  summoned  to  supper,  which,  on  Mr.  Macqueen’s  account^ 


#10 


THE  CHIEDKEN-  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


was  laid  out  in  a room  on  the  same  floor.  Thither,  without  cere^ 
mony,  whoever  was  next  the  door  first  proceeded.  Mr.  Macqueen 
was  already  seated  at  the  table  in  his  armchair,  and  Lady  Martha 
Dormer  on  his  right  hand.  The  eldest  son  was  deputed  to  do  the 
honors  of  the  foot  of  the  table.  The  company  was  checkered, 
and  Amanda  found  herself  between  Lord  Mortimer  and  Mr.  Colin 
Macqueen ; and  in  conversing  with  the  latter,  Amanda  sought  to 
avoid  noticing,  or  being  noticed  by  Lord  Mortimer;  and  his  lord' 
ship,  by  the  particular  attention  which  he  paid  Miss  Macqueen, 
who  sat  on  the  other  side,  appeared  actuated  by  the  same  wish 
The  sports  of  the  morning  had  furnished  the  table  with  a variety 
of  the  choicest  wild  fowl,  and  the  plenty  and  beauty  of  the  con-* 
fectionery  denoted  at  once  the  hospitable  spirit  and  elegant  taste 
of  the  mistress  of  the  feast.  Gayety  presided  at  the  board,  and 
there  was  scarcely  a tongue,  except  Amanda’s,  which  did  not 
utter  some  lively  sally.  The  piper  sat  in  the  lobby,  and  if  his 
strains  were  not  melodious,  they  were  at  least  cheerful.  In  the 
course  of  supper,  Ijord  Mortimer  was  compelled  to  follow  the 
universal  example  in  drinking  Amanda’s  health.  Obliged  to  turn 
her  looks  to  him,  oh ! how  did  her  heart  shrink  at  the  glance,  the 
expressive  glance  of  his  eye,  as  he  pronounced  Miss  Donald.  Un- 
conscious whether  she  had  noticed  in  the  usual  manner  his  dis- 
tressing compliment,  she  abruptly  turned  to  young  Macqueen^ 
and  addressed  some  scarcely  articulate  question  to  him.  The 
supper  things  removed,  the  strains  of  the  piper  were  silenced,  and 
songs,  toasts,  and  sentiments  succeeded.  Old  Mr.  Macqueen  set 
the  example  by  a favorite  Scotch  air,  and  then  called  upon  his 
next  neighbor.  Between  the  songs  toasts  were  called  for.  At 
last  it  came  to  Lord  Mortimer’s  turn.  Amanda  suddenly  ceased 
speaking  to  young  Macqueen.  She  saw  the  glass  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer filled,  and  in  the  next  moment  heard  the  name  of  Lady 
Euphrasia  Sutherland.  A feeling  like  wounded  pride  stole  into 
the  soul  of  Amanda.  She  did  not  decline  her  head  as  before,  and 
she  felt  a faint  glow  upon  her  cheek.  The  eyes  of  Lady  Martha 
and  Lady  Araminta  she  thought  directed  to  her  with  an  expres- 
sive meaning.  ‘ They  think,’  cried  she,  ‘ to  witness  mortification 
and  disappointment  in  my  looks,  but  they  shall  not,  if,  indeed, 
they  are  capable  of  enjoying  such  a triumph,  have  it.’ 

At  length  .she  was  called  upon  for  a song.  She  declined  the 
call;  but  Mr.  Macqueen  declared,  except  assured  she  could  not 
sing,  she  should  not  be  excused.  This  assurance,  without  a 
breach  of  truth,  she  could  not  give.  She  did  not  wish  to  appear 
ungrateful  to  her  kind  entertainers,  or  unsocial  in  the  midst  of 
mirth,  by  refusing  what  she  was  told  would  be  pleasing  to  them 
and  their  company.  She  also  wished,  from  a sudden  impulse  of 
pride,  to  appear  cheerful  in  those  eyes  she  knev»r  were  attentively 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


411 


observing*  her,  and,  therefore,  after  a little  hesitation,  consented  to 
sing.  The  first  song  which  occurred  to  her  was  a little  simple, 
but  pathetic  air,  which  her  father  used  to  delight  in,  and  which 
Lord  Mortimer  more  than  once  had  heard  from  her;  but  indeed 
she  could  recollect  no  song  which,  at  some  time  or  other,  she  had 
not  sung  for  him.  The  simple  air  she  had  chosen  seemed  per- 
fectly adapted  to  her  soft  voice,  whose  modulations  were  inex- 
pressibly afPecting.  She  had  proceeded  through  half  the  second 
rerse,  when  her  voice  began  to  falter.  The  attention  of  the  com- 
pany became,  if  possible,  more  fixed ; but  it  was  a vain  attention ; 
no  rich  strain  of  melody  repaid  it,  for  the  voice  of  the  songstress 
had  suddenly  ceased.  Mrs.  Macqueen,  with  the  delicacy  of  a 
susceptible  mind,  feared  increasing  her  emotion  by  noticing  it, 
and,  with  a glance  of  her  expressive  eye,  directed  her  company  to 
silence.  Amanda’s  eyes  were  bent  to  the  ground.  Suddenly  a 
glass  of  water  was  presented  to  her  by  a trembling  hand — by  the 
hand  of  Mortimer  himself.  She  declined  it  with  a motion  of  hers, 
and,  reviving  a little,  raised  her  head.  Young  Macqueen  then 
gave  her  an  entreating  whisper  to  finish  her  song.  She  thought 
it  would  look  like  affectation  to  require  farther  solicitation,  and, 
faintly  smiling,  again  began  in  strains  of  liquid  melody,  strains 
that  seemed  to  breathe  the  very  spirit  of  sensibility,  and  came 
over  each  attentive  ear. 

Like  a sweet  sound 
That  breathes  upon  a bank  of  violets 
Stealing  and  giving  odor. 

The  plaudits  she  received  from  her  singing  gave  to  her  cheeks 
such  a faint  tinge  of  red  as  is  seen  in  the  bosom  of  the  wild  rose. 
She  was  now  authorized  to  call  for  a song,  and,  as  if  doomed  to 
experience  cause  for  agitation.  Lord  Mortimer  was  the  person 
from  whom,  in  the  rotation  of  the  table,  she  was  to  claim  it. 
Thrice  she  was  requested  to  do  this  ere  she  could  obey.  At  last 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  which  was  now  turned  toward  her, 
and  she  saw  in  it  a confusion  equal  to  that  she  herself  trembled 
under.  Pale  and  red  by  turns,  he  appeared  to  her  to  wait  in 
painful  agitation  for  the  sound  of  her  voice.  Her  lips  moved, 
but  she  could  not  articulate  a word.  Lord  Mortimer  bowed,  as  if 
he  had  heard  what  they  would  have  said,  and  then,  turning  ab- 
ruptly to  Miss  Macqueen,  began  speaking  to  her. 

‘ Come,  come,  my  lord,’  said  Mr.  Macqueen,  ‘ we  must  not  be 
put  off  in  this  manner.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  laughed,  and  attempted  to  rally  the  old  gentle^ 
man;  but  he  seemed  unequal  to  the  attempt,  for,  with  a sudden 
seriousness,  he  declared  his  inability  of  complying  with  the  pres- 
ent demand.  All  farther  solicitation  on  the  subject  was  immedi- 
ately dropped.  In  the  round  of  toasts,  they  forgot  not  to  call  upon 


412 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Amanda  for  one.  If  she  had  listened  attentively  when  Lord 
Mortimer  was  about  giving  one,  no  less  attentively  did  he  now 
listen  to  her.  She  hesitated  a moment,  and  then  gave  Sir  Charles 
Bingley.  After  the  toast  had  passed,  ‘Sir  Charles  Bingley,’  re- 
peated Miss  Macqueen,  leaning  forward,  and  speaking  across  Lord 
Mortimer.  ‘ Oh ! I recollect  him  very  well.  His  regiment  was 
quartered  about  two  years  ago  at  a little  fort  some  distance  from 
this — and  I remember  his  coming  with  a shooting  party  to  the 
mountains,  aTnd  sleeping  one  night  here.  We  had  a delightful 
dance  that  evening,  and  all  thought  him  a charming  young  man. 
Pray,  are  you  well  acquainted  with  him?’  ‘ Yes— No,’ replied 
Amanda. 

‘ Ah!  I believe  you  are,  sly  girl,’  cried  Miss  Macqueen,  laugh* 
ing.  ‘ Pray,  my  lord,  does  not  that  blush  declare  Miss  Donald 
guilty  ?’  ‘ We  are  not  always  to  judge  from  the  countenance,’^ 

said  he,  darting  a penetrating  yet  quickly  withdrawn  glance  at 
Amanda.  ‘Experience,’  continued  he,  ‘daily  proves  how  little- 
dependence  is  to  be  placed  on  it.’  Amanda  turned  hastily  away, 
and  pretended,  by  speaking  to  young  Macqueen,  not  to  notice  a 
speech  she  knew  directly  pointed  at  her;  for  often  had  Lord 
Mortimer  declared  that,  ‘in  the  lineaments  of  the  human  face 
divine,  each  passion  of  the  soul  might  be  well  traced.’ 

Miss  Macqueen  laughed,  and  said  she  always  judged  of  the 
countenance,  and  that  her  likings  and  dislikings  were  always  the 
effects  of  first  sight. 

The  company  broke  up  soon  after  this,  and  much  earlier  than 
their  usual  hour,  on  account  of  the  travelers.  All  but  those  then 
immediately  belonging  to  the  family  having  departed,  some  maids- 
of  the  house  appeared,  to  show  the  ladies  to  their  respective  cham- 
bers. Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  retired  first.  Amanda 
was  following  them,  when  Mrs.  Macqueen  detained  her,  to  try 
and  prevail  on  her  to  stay  two  or  three  days  along  with  them. 
The  Miss  Macqueens  joined  their  mother;  but  Amanda  assured 
them  she  could  not  comply  with  their  request,  though  she  felt 
with  gratitude  its  friendly  warmth.  Old  Mr.  Macqueen  had  had 
his  chair  turned  to  the  fire,  and  his  sons  and  Lord  Mortimer  were 
surrounding  it.  ‘Well,  well,’  said  he,  calling  Amanda  to  him,, 
and  taking  her  hand,  ‘ if  you  will  not  stay  with  us  now,  remem- 
ber, on  your  return,  we  shall  lay  an  embargo  on  you.  In  the 
meantime,  I shall  not  lose  the  privilege  which  my  being  an  old 
married  man  gives  me.’  So  saying,  he  gently  pulled  Amanda  ta 
him,  and  kissed  her  cheek.  She  could  only  smile  at  this  inno- 
cent freedom,  but  she  attempted  to  withdraw  her  hand  to  retire. 

* Now,’  said  Mr.  Macqueen,  still  detaining  it,  ‘ are  all  these  young 
men  half  mad  with  envy  ? ’ The  young  Macqueens  joined  in 
their  father’s  gallantry,  and  not  a tongue  was  silent  except  Lord 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


413 


Mortimer’s.  His  head  rested  on  his  hand,  and  the  cornice  of  the 
chimney  supported  his  arm.  His  hair,  from  which  the  dancing 
had  almost  shaken  all  the  powder,  hung  negligently  about  his 
face,  and  added  to  its  paleness  and  sudden  dejection.  One  of  the 
young  Macqueens,  turning  from  his  brothers,  who  were  yet  con- 
tinuing their  mirth  with  their  father,  addressed  some  question  to 
his  lordship,  but  received  no  answer.  Again  he  repeated  it. 
Lord  Mortimer  then  suddenly  started,  as  if  from  a profound 
reverie,  and  apologized  for  his  absence. 

‘Ay,  ah,  my  lord,’  exclaimed  old  Mr.  Macqueen,  jocosely,  ‘ we 
may  all  guess  where  your  lordship  was  then  traveling  in  idea — 
a little  beyond  the  mountains,  I fancy.  Ay,  we  all  know  where 
your  heart  and  your  treasure  now  lie.’  ‘ Do  you  ? ’ said  Lord 
Mortimer,  with  a tone  of  deep  dejection,  and  a heavy  sigh,  with 
an  air,  also,  which  seemed  to  declare  him  scarcely  conscious  of 
what  he  said.  He  recollected  himself,  however,  at  the  instant, 
and  began  rallying  himself,  as  the  surest  means  of  preventing 
others  doing  so.  The  scene  was  too  painful  to  Amanda.  She 
hastily  withdrew  her  hand,  and,  faintly  wishing  the  party  a 
good-night,  went  out  to  the  maid,  who  was  waiting  for  her  in  the 
lobby,  and  was  conducted  to  her  room.  She  dismissed  the  ser- 
vant at  the  door,  and,  throwing  herself  into  a chair,  availed  her- 
self of  solitude  to  give  vent  to  the  tears  whose  painful  suppression 
had  so  long  tortured  her  heart.  She  had  not  sat  long  in  this 
situation  when  she  heard  a gentle  tap  at  the  door.  She  started, 
and  believing  it  to  be  one  of  the  Miss  Macqueens,  hastily  wiped 
away  her  tears,  and  opened  the  door.  A female  stranger  ap- 
peared at  it,  who  courtesying,  respectfully  said,  ‘ Lady  Martha 
Dormer,  her  lady,  desired  to  see  Miss  Donald  for  a few  minutes, 
if  not  inconvenient  to  her.’  ‘ See  me ! ’ repeated  Amanda,  with 
the  utmost  surprise ; ‘ can  it  be  possible  ? ’ She  suddenly  checked 
herself,  and  said  she  would  attend  her  ladyship  immediately. 
She  accordingly  followed  the  maid,  a variety  of  strange  ideas 
crowding  upon  her  mind.  Her  conductress  retired  as  she  shut 
the  door  of  the  room  into  which  she  showed  Amanda.  It  was  a 
small  ante-chamber  adjoining  the  apartment  Lady  Martha  was  to 
lie  in.  Here,  with  increasing  surprise,  she  beheld  Lord  Mortimer 
pacing  the  room  in  an  agitated  manner.  His  back  was  to  the  door 
as  she  entered,  but  he  turned  round  with  quickness,  approached, 
looked  on  her  a few  moments,  then  striking  his  hand  suddenly 
against  his  forehead,  turned  from  her  with  an  air  of  distraction. 

Lady  Martha,  who  was  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  room,  and 
only  bowed  as  Amanda  entered  it,  motioned  for  her  to  take  a 
chair;  a motion  Amanda  gladly  obeyed,  for  her  trembling  iimbs 
could  scarcely  support  her. 

All  was  silent  for  a few  minutes.  Lady  Martha  then  spoke  in 


414 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


a grave  voice:  ‘I  should  not,  madam,  have  taken  the  liberty  of 
sending  for  you  at  this  hour,  but  that  I believe  sa  favorable  an 
opportunity  would  not  again  have  occurred  of  speaking  to  you  on 
a subject  particularly  interesting  to  me — an  opportunity  which 
has  so  unexpectedly  saved  me  the  trouble  of  trying  to  find  you 
out,  and  the  necessity  of  writing  to  you.’ 

Lady  Martha  paused,  and  her  silence  was  not  interrupted  by 
Amanda.  ‘Last  summer,’  continued  Lady  Martha — again  she 
paused.  The  throbbings  of  Amanda’s  heart  became  more  violent. 
‘Last  summer,’  she  said  again,  ‘ there  were  some  little  gifts  pre- 
sented to  you  by  Lord  Mortimer.  From  the  events  which  fol- 
lowed their  acceptance,  I must  presume  they  are  valueless  to 
you;  from  the  events  about  taking  place,  they  are  of  impor- 
tance elsewhere.’  She  ceased,  but  Amanda  could  make  no 
reply. 

‘ You  cannot  be  ignorant,’  said  Lady  Martha,  with  something 
of  severity  in  her  accent,  as  if  offended  by  the  silence  of  Aman- 
da,— ‘you  cannot  be  ignorant,  I suppose,  that  it  is  the  picture  and 
ring  I allude  to.  The  latter,  from  being  a family  one  of  particular 
value,  I always  destined  for  the  wife  of  Lord  Mortimer;  I there- 
fore claim  it  in  my  own  name.  The  picture,  I have  his  lordship’s 
approbation  and  authority  to  demand ; and  to  convince  you  I 
have— indeed,  if  such  a conviction  be  necessary — have  prevailed 
on  him  to  be  present  at  this  conversation.’  ‘ No,  madam,  such  a 

conviction  was  not  necessary,’ cried  Amanda.  ‘I  should ’ 

She  could  utter  no  more  at  the  moment,  yet  tried  to  suppress  the 
agonizing  feeling  that  tumultuously  heaved  her  bosom. 

‘If  not  convenient  to  restore  them  immediately,’  said  Lady 
Martha,  ‘ I will  give  you  a direction  where  they  may  be  left  in 
London,  to  which  place  Mrs.  Macqueen  has  informed  me  you  are 
going.’  ‘ It  is  perfectly  convenient  now  to  restore  them,  madam,’ 
replied  Amanda,  with  a voice  perfectly  recovered,  animated  with 
conscious  innocence  and  offended  pride,  which  always  gave  her 
strength.  ‘ I shall  return,’  continued  she,  moving  to  the  door 
‘ with  them  immediately  to  your  ladyship.  ’ 

The  picture  was  suspended  from  her  neck,  and  the  ring  in  its 
case  lay  in  her  pocket;  but  by  the  manner  in  wdiich  they  had 
been  asked,  or  rather  demanded  from  her,  she  felt  amid  the  an- 
guish of  her  soul  a sudden  emotion  of  pleasure  that  she  could 
directly  give  them  back.  Yet,  when  in  her  own  room  she  hastily 
untied  the  picture  from  her  neck,  pulled  the  black  ribbon  from  it 
and  laid  it  in  its  case,  her  grief  overcame  every  other  feeling,  and 
a shower  of  tears  fell  from  her.  ‘ O Mortimer  ! dear  Mortimer!  ’ 
she  sighed,  ‘ must  I part  even  with  this  little  shadow ! must  I re- 
tain no  vestige  of  happier  hours  1 Yet,  why — why  should  I wish  to 
retain  it,  when  the  original  will  soon  be  another’s  ? Yes,  if  I be- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


41S 


bold  Mortimer  again,  it  will  soon  be  as  the  husband  of  Lady" 
Euphrasia.’ 

She  recollected  she  was  staying  beyond  the  expected  time,  and 
wiped  away  her  tears.  Yet,  still  she  lingered  a few  minutes  in 
the  chamber,  to  try  to  calm  her  agitation.  She  called  her  pride 
to  her  aid;  it  inspired  her  with  fortitude,  and  she  proceeded  ta 
Lady  Martha,  determined  that  lady  should  see  nothing  in  her 
manner  which  she  could  possibly  construe  into  weakness  or  mean- 
ness. Never  did  she  appear  more  interesting  than  at  the  moment 
she  re-entered  the  apartment.  The  passion  she  had  called  to  her 
aid  gav"e  a bright  glow  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  traces  of  the  tears 
she  had  been  shedding  appeared  upon  those  glowing  cheeks  like 
dew  on  the  silken  leaves  of  the  rose  ere  the  sunbeams  of  the  morn- 
ing have  exhaled  it.  Those  tears  left  an  humble  luster  in  her 
eyes,  even  more  interesting  than  their  wonted  brilliancy.  Her 
hair  hung  in  rich  and  unrestrained  luxuriance — for  she  had 
thrown  off  her  hat  on  first  going  to  her  chamber — and  gave  to  the 
beauty  of  her  face,  and  the  elegance  of  her  form,  a complete 
finishing. 

‘Here,  madam,  is  the  ring,’  cried  she,  presenting  it  to  Lady 
Marth  a,  ‘ and  here  is  the  picture, ' she  would  have  added,  but  her 
voice  faltered,  and  a tear  started  from  her  eye.  Determined  ta 
conceal,  if  possible,  her  feelings,  she  hastily  dashed  away  the 
pearly  fugitive.  Lady  Martha  was  again  extending  her  hand 
when  Lord  Mortimer  suddenly  started  from  a couch  on  which  he 
had  thrown  himself,  and  snatching  the  picture  from  the  trem- 
bling hand  that  held  it,  pulled  it  from  its  case,  and  flinging  it  on 
the  floor,  trampled  it  beneath  his  feet.  ‘Thus  perish,’  ex- 
claimed he,  ‘ every  memento  of  my  attachment  to  Amanda  f 
Oh,  wretched,  wretched  girl  ! ’ cried  he,  suddenly  grasping  her 
hand  and  as  suddenly  relinquishing  it,  ‘ Oh,  wretched,  wretched 
girl  ! you  have  undone  yourself  and  me!  ’ He  turned  abruptly 
away,  and  instantly  quitted  the  room.  Shocked  by  his  words^ 
and  terrified  by  his  manner,  Amanda  had  just  power  to  gain  a 
chair.  Lady  Martha  seemed  also  thunderstruck;  but,  from  the 
musing  attitude  in  which  she  stood,  the  deep  convulsive  suffo- 
cating sobs  of  Amanda  soon  called  her.  She  went  to  her,  and 
finding  her  unable  to  help  herself,  loosened  her  cravat,  bathed 
her  temples  with  lavender,  and  gave  her  water  to  drink.  These 
attentions,  and  the  tears  she  shed,  revived  Amanda.  She  raised 
herself  in  her  chair,  on  which  she  had  fallen  back,  but  was  yet 
too  much  agitated  to  stand. 

‘ Poor,  unhappy  young  creature  1 ’ said  Lady  Martha,  ‘ I pity 
you  from  my  soul ! Ah ! if  your  mind  resembled  your  person, 
what  a perfect  creature  had  you  been ! How  happy  had  then 
been  my  poor  Mortimer  I ’ 


416 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Now,  now  was  the  test,  the  shining  test  of  Amanda’s  virtue, 
agonized  by  knowing  she  had  lost  the  good  opinion  of  those  whom 
she  loved  with  such  ardor,  esteemed  with  such  reverence.  She 
knew  by  a few  words  she  could  explain  the  appearances  which 
had  deprived  her  of  his  good  opinion,  and  fully  regain  it  ; regain, 
by  a few  words,  the  love,  the  esteem  of  her  valued,  her  inestima- 
ble Mortimer — the  affection,  the  protection,  of  his  amiable  aunt 
and  sister.  She  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand,  the  weight  on 
lier  bosom  became  less  oppressive;  she  raised  her  head.  ‘Of  my 

innocence  I can  give  such  proofs ’ cried  she.  Her  lips  closed, 

a mortal  paleness  overspread  her  face ; the  sound  of  suicide  seemed 
piercing  through  her  ear;  she  trembled;  the  solemn,  the  dreadful 
declaration  Lord  Cherbury  had  made  of  not  surviving  the  disclo- 
sure of  his  secret,  her  promise  of  inviolably  keeping  it,  both 
rushed  upon  her  mind.  She  beheld  herself  on  the  very  verge  of 
a tremendous  precipice,  and  about  plunging  herself  and  a fellow- 
creature  into  it,  from  whence,  at  the  tribunal  of  her  God,  she 
would  have  to  answer  for  accelerating  the  death  of  that  fellow- 
creature.  ‘ And  is  it  by  a breach  of  faith?  ’ she  asked  herself,  ‘ I 
hope  to  be  re-established  in  the  opinion  of  Lord  Mortimer  and  his 
relations.  Ah ! mistaken  idea,  and  how  great  is  the  delusion  pas- 
sion spreads  before  our  eyes,  even  if  their  esteem  could  be  thus 
regained ! Oh  ! what  were  that  or  what  the  ecteem,  the  plaudits 
of  the  world,  if  those  of  my  own  heart  were  gone  forever ! Oh  ! 
never!  ’ cried  she,  still  to  herself,  and  raising  her  eyes  to  Heaven. 

Oh ! never  may  the  pangs  of  self-reproach  be  added  to  those 
which  now  oppress  me ! ’ Her  heart  at  the  moment  formed  a sol- 
emn vow  never,  by  any  willful  act,  to  merit  such  a pang.  ‘And 
oh,  my  God  ! ’ she  cried,  ‘ forgive  thy  weak  creature  who,  assailed 
by  strong  temptation,  thought  for  a moment  of  wandering  from 
the  path  of  truth  and  integrity,  which  can  alone  conduct  her  to 
the  region  where  peace  and  immortal  glory  will  be  hers.’ 

Amanda,  amid  her  powerful  emotions,  forgot  she  was  ob- 
served, except  by  that  Being  to  whom  she  applied  for  pardon  and 
future  strength.  Lady  Martha  had  been  a silent  spectator  of  her 
emotions,  and,  thinking  as  she  did  of  Amanda,  could  only  hope 
that  they  proceeded  from  contrition  for  her  past  conduct,  forci- 
bly awakened  by  reflecting  on  the  deprivations  it  had  caused  her. 

When  she  again  saw  Amanda  able  to  pay  attention,  she  ad- 
dressed her:  ‘ I said  I was  sorry  for  witnessing  your  distress;  I 
shall  not  repeat  the  expression,  thinking  as  I now  do;  I hope 
that  it  is  occasioned  by  regret  for  past  errors ; the  tears  of  repent- 
ance wash  away  the  stains  of  guilt,  and  that  heart  must  indeed  be 
callous  which  the  sigh  of  remorse  will  not  melt  to  pity.’  Aman- 
da turned  her  eyes  with  earnestness  on  Lady  Martha  as  she  spoke 
and  her  cheeks  were  again  tinged  with  a faint  glow« 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


417 


‘ Perhaps  I speak  too  plainly,’  cried  Lady  Martha,  witnessing 
this  glow,  and  imputing  it  Presentment;  ‘but  I have  ever  liked 
the  undisguised  language  of  sincerity.  It  gave  me  pleasure,’  she*, 
continued,  ‘ to  hear  you  had  been  in  employment  at  Mrs.  Dun- 
can’s, but  that  pleasure  was  destroyed  by  hearing  you  were  go-^ 
ing  to  London,  though  to  seek  your  brother ; Mrs.  Duncan  has^ 
informed  Mrs.  Macqueen.  If  this  were  indeed  the  motive,  there^ 
are  means  of  inquiring  without  taking  so  imprudent  a step.’  ‘ Im- 
prudent!’ repeated  Amanda,  involuntarily.  ‘Yes,’  cried  Lady 
Martha,  ‘ a journey  so  long,  without  a protector,  to  a young,  I 
must  add,  a lovely  woman,  teems  with  danger,  from  which  a 
mind  of  delicacy  would  shrink  appalled.  If,  indeed,  you  go  to- 
seek  your  brother,  and  he  regards  you  as  he  should,  he  would 
rather  have  you  neglect  him  (though  that  you  need  not  have  done 
by  staying  with  Mrs.  Duncan),  than  run  into  the  way  of  insults^ 
No  emergency  in  life  should  lead  us  to  do  an  improper  thing;  as^ 
trying  to  produce  good  by  evil  is  impious,  so  trying  to  produce 
pleasure  by  imprudence  is  folly ; they  are  trials,  however  flatter- 
ingly they  may  commence,  which  are  sure  to  end  in  sorrow  and 
disappointment. 

‘You  will,’  continued  Lady  Martha,  ‘ if  indeed  anxious  to  es- 
cape from  any  farther  censure  than  what  has  already  fallen  upon? 
you,  return  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  when  I inform  you  (if  indeed  you. 
are  already  ignorant  of  it)  that  Colonel  Belgrave  passed  this  road 
about  a month  ago,  on  his  way  from  a remote  part  of  Scotland 
to  London,  where  he  now  is.’  ‘I  cannot  help,’  said  Amanda,, 
‘ the  misconstructions  which  may  be  put  on  my  actions ; I can  only 
support  myself  under  the  pain  they  inflict  by  conscious  rectitude. 
I am  shocked,  indeed,  at  the  surmises  entertained  about  me,  and 
a wretch  whom  my  soul  abhorred  from  the  moment  I knew  his; 
real  principles.’ 

‘ If,  ’ said  Lady  Martha,  ‘ your  journey  is  really  not  prompted 
by  the  intention  of  seeing  your  brother,  you  heighten  every  other 
by  duplicity.’  ‘You  are  severe,  madam;’  exclaimed  Amanda, 
in  whose  soul  the  pride  of  injured  innocence  was  again  reviving. 

‘ If  I probe  the  wound,’  cried  Lady  Martha,  ‘I  would  also  wish, 
to  heal  it.  It  is  the  wish  I feel  of  saving  a young  creature  froina 
further  error,  of  serving  a being  once  so  valued  by  him  who  pos- 
sesses my  first  regard,  that  makes  me  speak  as  I now  do.  Eeturn 
to  Mrs.  Duncan’s,  prove  in  one  instance  at  least  you  do  not  de- 
serve suspicion.  She  is  your  friend,  and  in  your  situation  a friend 
is  too  precious  a treasure  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  it.  With  her,, 
as  she  lives  retired,  there  will  be  little  danger  of  your  history  or 
real  name  being  discovered,  which  I am  sorry  you  dropped,  let 
your  motive  for  doing  so  be  what  it  may,  for  the  detection  of  one 
deception  makes  us  suspect  every  other.  Eeturn,  I repeat,  to  Mrs^ 


418 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Duncan’s,  and  if  you  want  any  inquiries  made  about  your  brother^ 
•dictate  them,  and  I will  take  care  they  shall  be  made,  and  that  you 
shall  know  their  result.’ 

Had  Amanda’s  motive  for  a journey  to  London  been  only  to 
seek  her  brother,  she  would  gladly  have  accepted  this  offer,  thus 
avoiding  the  imputation  of  traveling  after  Belgrave,  or  of  going  to 
din  him,  the  hazard  of  encountering  him  in  London,  and  the 
dangers  of  so  long  a journey;  but  the  affair  of  the  will  required 
^expedition,  and  her  own  immediate  presence — an  affair  the  in- 
junction of  Lady  Dunreath  had  prohibited  her  disclosing  to  any- 
one who  could  not  immediately  forward  it,  and  which,  if  such  an 
injunction  never  existed,  she  could  not  with  propriety  have  di- 
vulged to  Lady  Martha,  who  was  so  soon  to  be  connected  with  a 
family  so  materially  concerned  in  it,  and  in  whose  favor,  on  ac- 
count of  her  nephew's  connection  with  them,  it  was  probable  she 
might  be  biased. 

Amanda  hoped  and  believed  that  in  a place  so  large  as  London, 
and  with  her  assumed  name  (which  she  now  resolved  not  to  drop 
till  in  a more  secure  situation),  she  should  escape  Belgrave.  As 
to  meeting  him  on  the  road  she  had  not  the  smallest  apprehension 
concerning  that,  naturally  concluding  that  he  never  would  have 
taken  so  long  a journey  as  he  had  lately  done,  if  he  could  have 
stayed  but  a few  weeks  away.  Time,  she  trusted,  would  prove 
the  falsity  of  the  inference  which  she  already  was  informed 
vsrould  be  drawn  from  her  persevering  in  her  journey.  She  told 
Lady  Martha  ‘ that  she  thanked  her  for  her  kind  offer,  but  must 
decline  it,  as  the  line  of  conduct  she  had  marked  out  for  herself 
Tendered  it  unnecessary  whose  innocence  would  yet  be  justified,’ 
she  added.  Lady  Martha  shook  her  head ; the  consciousness  of 
Laving  excited  suspicions  which  she  could  not  justify,  had  indeed 
^iven  to  the  looks  of  Amanda  a confusion  when  she  spoke  which 
confirmed  them  in  Lady  Martha’s  breast.  ‘ I am  sorry  for  your 
determination,’  said  she,  ‘ but  notwithstanding  it  is  so  contrary  to 
my  ideas  of  what  is  right,  I cannot  let  you  depart  without  tell- 
mg  you  that,  should  you  at  any  time  want  or  require  services, 
which  you  would,  or  could  not,  ask  from  strangers,  or  perhaps 
^expect  them  to  perform,  acquaint  me,  and  command  mine;  yet, 
in  doing  justice  to  my  own  feelings,  I must  not  do  injustice  to 
the  noble  ones  of  Lord  Mortimer.  It  is  by  his  desire,  as  well  as 
my  own  inclination,  I now  speak  to  you  in  this  manner,  though 
past  events,  and  the  situation  he  is  about  entering  into,  must  for- 
ever preclude  his  personal  interference  in  your  affairs.  He  could 
never  hear  the  daughter  of  Captain  Fitzalan  suffered  inconven- 
ience of  any  kind,  without  wishing,  without  having  her,  indeed, 
if  possible,  extricated  from  it.’  . ‘Oh!  madam,’ cried  Amanda,  un- 
able to  repress  her  gushing  tears,  ‘ I am  already  well  acquainted 


THE  CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


419 


with  the  noble  feelings  of  Lord  Mortimer,  already  oppressed  with 
a weight  of  obligations.’  Lady  Martha  was  affected  by  her 
energy;  her  eyes  grew  humid,  and  her  voice  softened.  ‘ Error  in 
you  will  be  more  inexcusable  than  in  others,’  cried  Lady  Martha^ 

‘ because,  like  too  many  unhappy  creatures,  you  cannot  plead  the 
desertion  of  all  the  world.  To  regret  past  errors,  be  they  what 
they  may,  is  to  insure  my  assistance  and  protection,  if  both,  or 
either,  are  at  any  time  required  by  you.  Was  I even  gone,  I should 
take  care  to  leave  a substitute  behind  me  who  should  fulfil  my  in- 
tentions toward  you,  and  by  so  doing  at  once  soothe  and  gratify  the. 
feelings  of  Lord  Mortimer.  ’ ‘ I thank  you,  madam,  ’ cried  Amanda,, 
rising  from  her  chair,  and,  as  she  wiped  away  her  tears,  summon- 
ing all  her  fortitude  to  her  aid,  ‘ for  the  interest  you  express  about 
me ; the  time  may  yet  come,  perhaps,  when  I shall  prove  I never 
was  unworthy  of  exciting  it — when  the  notice  now  offered  from 
compassion  may  be  tendered  from  esteem — then,’  continued 
Amanda,  who  could  not  forbear  this  justice  to  herself,  ‘ the  pitjr 
of  Lady  Martha  Dormer  will  not  humble  but  exalt  me,  because 
then  I shall  know  that  it  proceeded  from  that  generous  sympathy 
which  one  virtuous  mind  feels  for  another  in  distress.  ’ She  moved 
to  the  door.  ‘ How  lamentable,  ’ said  Lady  Martha,  ‘ to  have  such 
talents  misapplied ! ’ ‘ Ah ! madam,’  cried  Amanda,  stopping  and 
turning  mournfully  to  her,  ‘ I find  you  are  inflexible.’ 

Lady  Martha  shook  her  head,  and  Amanda  had  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  lock,  when  Lady  Martha  said  suddenly,  ‘ There  were 
letters  passed  between  you  and  Lord  Mortimer.’  Amanda  bowed. 
‘ They  had  better  be  mutually  returned,’  said  Lady  Martha.  ‘ Da 
you  seal  up  his  and  send  them  to  Lord  Cherbury’s  house  in  Lon- 
don, directed  to  me,  and  I will  pledge  myself  to  have  yours  re- 
turned.’ ‘You  shall  be  obeyed,  madam,’  replied  Amanda,  in  a 
low,  broken  voice,  after  the  pause  of  a moment.  Lady  Martha 
then  said  she  would  no  longer  encroach  upon  her  rest,  and  she 
retired. 

In  her  chamber,  the  feelings  she  had  so  long,  so  painfully  tried 
to  suppress,  broke  forth  without  again  meeting  opposition.  The* 
pride  which  had  given  her  transient  animation  was  no  more ; for, 
as  past  circumstances  arose  to  recollection,  she  could  not  wonder 
at  her  being  condemned  from  them.  She  no  longer  accused  Lady 
Martha  in  her  mind  of  severity — ^no  longer  felt  offended  with 
her  ; but,  oh ! Mortimer,  the  bitter  tears  she  shed  fell  not  for  her- 
self alone;  she  wept  to  think  thy  destiny,  though  more  pros- 
perous, was  not  less  unhappy  than  her  own ; for  in  thy  broken, 
accents,  thy  altered  looks,  she  perceived  a passion  strong  and 
sincere  as  ever  for  her,  and  well  she  knew  Lady  Euphrasia  not 
calculated  to  soothe  a sad  heart,  or  steal  an  image  from  it  which 
corroded  its  felicity.  Rest,  after  the  incidents  of  the  evening, 


420 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


was  not  to  be  thought  of,  but  nature  was  exhausted,  and  insen- 
sibly Amanda  sunk  upon  the  bed  in  a deep  sleep — so  insensibly, 
that  when  she  awoke,  which  was  not  till  the  morning  was  pretty 
far  advanced,  she  felt  surprised  at  her  situation.  She  felt  cold 
^ind  unrefreshed  from  having  lain  in  her  clothes  all  night,  and 
when  she  went  to  adjust  her  dress  at  the  glass,  was  surprised  at 
the  pallidness  of  her  looks.  Anxious  to  escape  a second  painful 
meeting,  she  went  to  the  window  to  see  if  the  chaise  was  come, 
but  was  disappointed  on  finding  that  she  had  slept  at  the  back  of 
the  house.  She  heard  no  noise,  and  concluding  the  family  had 
not  yet  risen  after  the  amusements  of  the  preceding  night,  sat 
down  by  the  window,  which  looked  into  a spacious  garden,  above 
which  rose  romantic  hills  that  formed  a screen  for  some  young 
and  beautiful  plantations  that  lay  between  them  and  the  garden; 
but  the  misty  tops  of  the  hills,  the  varied  trees  which  autumn 
spread  over  the  plantations,  nor  the  neat  appearance  of  the 
.garden,  had  power  to  amuse  the  imagination  of  Amanda.  Her 
patience  was  exhausted  after  sitting  some  time,  and  going  to  the 
door  she  softly  opened  it,  to  try  if  she  could  hear  anyone  stir- 
ring. She  had  not  stood  long,  when  the  sound  of  footsteps  and 
voices  rose  from  below.  She  instantly  quitted  her  room,  and 
descended  the  stairs  into  a small  hall,  across  which  was  a folding- 
door  ; this  she  gently  opened,  and  found  it  divided  the  hall  she 
«tood  in  from  the  one  that  was  spacious  and  lofty,  and  which  her 
passing  through  the  preceding  night  before  it  was  lighted  up  had 
prevented  her  taking  notice  of.  Here,  at  a long  table,  were  the 
men  servants  belonging  to  the  family  and  the  guests  assembled 
at  breakfast,  the  piper  at  the  head,  like  the  king  of  the  feast. 
Amanda  stepped  back  the  moment  she  perceived  them,  well 
knowing  Lord  Mortimer’s  servants  would  recollect  her,  and  was 
ascending  the  stairs  to  her  room  to  ring  for  one  of  the  maids, 
when  a servant  hastily  followed  her,  and  said  the  family  were 
already  in  the  breakfast  room.  At  the  same  moment,  Mr.  Colin 
Macqueen  came  from  a parlor  which  opened  into  the  little  hall, 
and  paying  Amanda,  in  a lively  and  affectionate  manner,  the 
compliments  of  the  morning,  he  led  her  to  the  parlor,  where  not 
only  all  the  family  guests  who  had  lain  in  the  house,  but  several 
gentlemen,  who  had  been  with  them  the  preceding  night,  were 
•assembled.  Doctor  Johnson  has  already  celebrated  a Scotch 
breakfast,  nor  was  the  one  at  which  Mrs.  Macqueen  and  her  fair 
daughters  presided  inferior  to  any  he  had  seen.  Besides  chocolate, 
tea,  and  coffee,  with  the  usual  appendages,  there  were  rich  cakes, 
choice  sweetmeats,  and  a variety  of  cold  pastry,  with  ham  and 
chickens,  to  which  several  of  the  gentlemen  did  honor.  The 
dishes  were  ornamented  with  sweet  herbs  and  wild  flowers, 
gathered  about  T;he  feet  of  the  mountains  and  in  the  valley,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


421 


t)y  every  guest  was  placed  a fine  bouquet  from  the  greenhouse^ 
with  little  French  mottoes  on  love  and  friendship  about  them, 
which,  being  opened  and  read,  added  to  the  mirth  of  the  com- 
pany. 

‘ I was  just  going  to  send  one  of  the  girls  for  you,’  said  Mrs. 
Macqueen,  when  Amanda  had  taken  a place  at  the  table,  ‘ and 
would  have  done  so  before,  but  wished  you  to  get  as  much  rest 
as  possible,  after  your  fatiguing  journey.’  ‘I  assure  you, 
madam,’  said  Amanda,  ‘I  have  been  up  this  long  time,  ex» 
pecting  every  moment  a summons  to  the  chaise.’  ‘I  took  care 
of  that  last  night,’  said  Mrs.  Macqueen,  ‘for  I was  determined 
you  should  not  depart,  at  least  without  breakfasting.’  Amanda 
was  seated  between  Mr.  Colin  Macqueen  and  his  eldest  sister, 
and  sought,  by  conversing  with  the  former,  for  the  latter  was; 
too  much  engrossed  by  the  general  gayety  to  pay  much  attention 
to  anyone,  to  avoid  the  looks  she  dreaded  to  see.  Yet  the  sound 
of  Lord  Mortimer’s  voice  affected  her  as  much  almost  as  his  looks. 

‘ Pray,  Lady  Martha,’  said  the  second  Miss  Macqueen,  a lively, 
thoughtless  girl,  ‘ will  your  ladyship  be  so  good  as  to  guarantee 
a promise  Lord  Mortimer  has  just  made  me,  or  rather  that  I have 
extorted  from  him,  which  is  the  cause  of  this  application  ? ’ 
‘You  must  first,  my  dear,’  answered  Lady  Martha,  ‘let  me 
know  what  the  promise  is.’  ‘Why,  gloves  and  bridal  favors; 
but  most  unwillingly  granted,  I can  assure  your  ladyship.’ 
Amanda  was  obliged  to  set  down  the  cup  she  was*  raising  to  her 
lips,  and  a glance  stole  involuntarily  from  her  toward  Lord 
Mortimer — a glance  instantly  withdrawn  when  she  saw  his  eyes 
in  the  same  direction.  ‘I  declare,’  continued  Miss  Phoebe  Mac-^ 
queen,  ‘I  should  do  the  favor  all  due  honor.’  ‘I  am  sure/ 
cried  Lord  Mortimer,  attempting  to  speak  cheerfully,  ‘your 
acceptance  of  it  will  do  honor  to  the  presenter.’  ‘And  your 
lordship  may  be  sure,  too,’  said  one  of  her  brothers,  ‘it  is  a favor 
she  would  wish  with  all  her  heart  to  have  an  opportunity  of  re- 
turning.’ ‘Oh!  in  that  she  would  not  be  singular,’  said  a 
gentleman.  ‘What  do  you  think,  Miss  Donald,’  cried  Colin 
Macqueen,  turning  to  Amanda,  ‘do  you  imagine  she  would 
not  ? ’ Amanda  could  scarcely  speak.  She  tried,  however,  ta 
hide  her  agitation,  and,  forcing  a faint  smile,  with  a voice  nearly 
as  faint,  said,  ‘that  was  not  a fair  question.’  The  Miss  Mac- 
queens  took  upon  themselves  to  answer  it,  and  Amanda,  through 
their  means,  was  relieved  from  farther  embarrassment. 

Breakfast  over,  Amanda  was  anxious  to  depart,  and  yet  wanted 
courage  to  be  the  first  to  move.  A charm  seemed  to  bind  her  ta 
the  spot  where,  for  the  last  time,  she  should  behold  Lord  Morti- 
mer, at  least  the  last  time  she  ever  expected  to  see  him  unmai> 
ried. 


422  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

Her  dread  of  being*  late  on  the  road — and  she  heard  the  des- 
tined stage  for  the  night  was  at  a great  distance — at  last  conquered 
her  reluctance  to  move,  and  she  said  to  Mr.  Colin  Macqueen  it 
was  tinie  -for  her  to  go.  At  that  moment  Lord  Mortimer  rose, 
2ind  psTf posed  to  the  young  Macqueens  going  with  them  to  see  the 
new  filantations  behind  the  house,  which  old  Mr.  Macqueen  had 
^!xpressed  a desire  his  lordship  should  give  his  opinion  of. 

All  the  young  gentlemen,  as  well  as  the  Macqueens,  Colin  ex- 
cepted, attended  his  lordship  ; nor  did  they  depart  without  wish- 
ing Amanda  a pleasant  jourhey. 

Silent  and  sad,  she  continued  in  her  chair  for  some  minutes 
after  they  quitted  the  room,  forgetful  of  her  situation,  till  the 
loud  laugh  of  the  Miss  Macqueens  restored  her  to  a recollection  of 
it.  She  blushed,  and,  rising  hastily,  was  proceeding  to  pay  her 
farewell  compliments,  when  Mrs.  Macqueen,  rising,  drew  her  to 
Ihe  window,  and  in  a low  voice  repeated  her  request  for  Amanda’s 
company  a few  days.  This  Amanda  again  declined,  but  grate- 
fully expressed  her  thanks  for  it,  and  the  hospitality  she  had  ex- 
perienced. Mrs.  Macqueen  said,  on  her  return  to  Scotland,  she 
hoped  to  be  more  successful.  She  also  added  that  some  of  her 
boys  and  girls  would  gladly  have  accompanied  Amanda  a few 
miles  on  her  way,  had  not  they  all  agreed,  ere  her  arrival,  to 
escort  Lord  Mortimer’s  party  to  an  inn  at  no  great  distance,  and 
take  an  early  dinner  with  them.  She  should  write  that  day,  she 
said,  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  and  thank  her  for  having  introduced  to  her 
family  a person  whose  acquaintance  was  an  acquisition.  Amanda, 
having  received  the  affectionate  adieus  of  this  amiable  woman 
.and  her  daughters,  courtesied,  though  with  downcast  looks,  to 
Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta,  who  returned  her  salutation 
with  coolness. 

Followed  by  two  of  the  Misses  Macqueen,  she  hurried  through 
the  hall,  from  which  the  servants  and  the  breakfast  things  were 
already  removed  ; but  how  was  she  distressed  when  the  first 
object  she  saw  outside  the  door  was  Lord  Mortimer,  by  whom 
stood  Colin  Macqueen — who  had  left  the  parlor  to  see  if  the  chaise 
was  ready — and  one  of  his  brothers.  Hastily  would  she  have 
stepped  forward  to  the  chaise,  had  not  the  gallantry  of  the  young 
men  impeded  her  way.  They  expressed  sorrow  at  her  not  staying 
longer  among  them,  and  hopes  on  her  return  she  would. 

• Pray,  my  lord,’  cried  the  Misses  Macqueen,  while  their  brothers 
were  thus  addressing  Amanda,  ‘pray,  my  lord,’  almost  in  the 
same  breath,  ‘ what  have  you  done  with  the  gentlemen  ? ’ ‘ You 

should  ask  your  brother,’  he  replied  : ‘he  has  locked  them  up  in 
the  plantation.’  A frolic  was  at  all  times  pleasing  to  the  light- 
hearted Macqueens,  and  to  enjoy  the  present  one  off  they  ran 
directly,  followed  by  their  brothers,  all  calling,  as  they  ran,  to 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY.  4 23 

Amanda  not  to  stir  till  they  came  back,  which  would  be  in  a few 
minutes  ; but  Amanda,  from  the  awkward,  the  agitating  situation 
in  which  they  had  left  her,  would  instantly  have  relieved  herself, 
could  she  have  made  the  postilion  hear  her;  but  as  if  enjoying  the 
race,  he  had  gone  to  some  distance  to  view  it,  and  none  of  the 
servants  of  the  house  were  near.  Conscious  of  her  own  emotions, 
she  feared  betraying  them,  and  stepped  a few  yards  from  the  door, 
pretending  to  be  engrossed  by  the  Macqueens.  A heavy  sigh 
suddenly  pierced  her  ears.  ‘ Amanda,’  in  the  next  moment  said 
a voice  to  which  her  heart  vibrated.  She  turned  with  involun- 
tary quickness  and  saw  Lord  Mortimer  close  by  her.  ‘ Amanda,’ 
he  repeated  ; then  suddenly  clasping  his  hands  together,  ex- 
claimed, with  an  agonized  expression,  while  he  turned  abruptly 
from  her  ‘ Grracious  Heaven  ! what  a situation!  Amanda,’ said 
he,  again  looking  at  her,  ‘ the  scene  which  happened  last  night 
was  distressing.  I am  now  sorry  on  your  account  that  it  took 
place.  Notwithstanding  past  events,  I bear  you  no  ill-will.  The 
knowledge  of  your  uneasiness  would  give  me  pain.  From  my 
heart  I forgive  you  all  that  you  have  caused — that  you  have  en- 
tailed upon  me.  At  this  moment  I could  take  you  to  my  arms,  and 
weep  over  you — like  the  fond  mother  over  the  last  darling  of  her 
hopes — tears  of  pity  and  forgiveness.’ 

Amanda,  unutterably  affected,  covered  her  face  to  hide  the 
tears  which  bedewed  it. 

‘Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing,’  continued  Lord  Morti- 
mer, ‘ that  you  forgive  the  uneasiness  and  pain  I might  have  oc- 
casioned you  last  night.’  ‘ Forgive  ! ’ repeated  Amanda.  ‘ Oh, 
my  lord,’  and  her  voice  sunk  in  the  sobs  which  heaved  her  bosom. 
‘ Could  I think  you  were,  you  would  be  happy Lord  Mor- 

timer stopped,  overcome  by  strong  emotions. 

‘ Happy  ! ’ repeated  Amanda  ! ‘oh  1 never — never  ! ’ continued 
she,  raising  her  streaming  eyes  to  heaven  ; ‘ oh,  never — never  in 
this  world  ! ’ 

At  this  moment  the  Macqueens  were  not  only  heard  but  seen 
running  back,  followed  by  the  gentlemen,  whom  they  had  been 
prevailed  on  to  liberate.  Shocked  at  the  idea  of  being  seen  in 
such  a situation,  Amanda  would  have  called  the  postilion,  but  he 
was  too  far  off  to  hear  her  weak  voice,  had  she  then  ev^en  been 
able  to  exert  that  voice.  She  looked  toward  him,  however,  with 
an  expression  which  denoted  the  feelings  of  her  soul.  Lord  Mor- 
timer, sensible  of  those  feelings,  hastily  pulled  open  the  door  of 
the  chaise,  and  taking  the  cold  and  trembling  hand  of  Amanda 
with  one  equally  cold  and  trembling,  assisted  her  into  the  chaise, 
then  pressing  the  hand  he  held  between  both  his,  he  suddenly  let 

drop  from  him,  and  closing  the  door  without  again  looking  at 
Amanda,  called  to  the  driver,  who  instantly  obeyed  the  call,  and 


424 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Had  mounted  ere  the  Macqueens  arrived.  Oh,  what  a contrast 
did  their  looks,  blooming  with  health  and  exercise,  their  gayety, 
their  |'»rotected  situation,  form  to  the  wan,  dejected,  desolate 
Amanda  ! With  looks  of  surprise  they  were  going  up  to  the 
chaise,  when  Lord  Mortimer,  still  standing  by  it,  and  anxious  to 
save  h;3  anhappy,  lost  Amanda  the  pain  of  being  noticed  in  such 
agitation;  gave  the  man  a signal  to  drive  off,  which  was  instantly 
obeyed. 

Thus  did  Amanda  leave  the  mansion  of  the  Macqueens,  where 
sorrow  had  scarcely  ever  before  entered  without  meeting  allevia- 
tion, a mansion  where  the  stranger,  the  wayfaring  man,  and  the 
needy,  were  sure  of  a welcome,  cordial  as  benevolence  and  hos- 
pitality themselves  could  give  ; and  where  happiness,  as  pure  as 
in  this  sublunary  state  can  be  experienced,  was  enjoyed.  As  she 
drove  from  the  door,  she  saw  the  splendid  equipages  of  Lord 
Mortimer  and  Lady  Martha  driving  to  it.  She  turned  from  them 
with  a sigh,  at  reflecting  they  would  soon  grace  the  bridal  pomp 
of  Lady  Euphrasia,  She  pursued  the  remainder  of  her  journey 
without  meeting  anything  worthy  of  relation.  It  was  in  the 
evening  she  reached  London.  The  moment  she  stopped  at  the 
hotel  she  sent  for  a carriage,  and  proceeded  in  it  to  Mrs.  Connel’s, 
in  Bond  Street. 


CHAPTER  L. 

Dissembling  hope,  her  cloudy  front  she  clears, 

And  a false  vigor  in  her  eyes  appears.— Drtden. 

She  alighted  from  the  carriage  when  it  stopped  at  the  door^ 
and  entered  the  shop,  where,  to  her  inexpressible  satisfaction,  the 
first  object  she  beheld  was  Miss  Rushbrook,  sitting  pensively  at 
one  of  the  counters.  The  moment  she  saw  Amanda  she  recol- 
lected her,  and,  starting  up,  exclaimed,  as  she  took  her  hand, 

‘ Ah  ! dear  madam,  this  is  indeed  a joyful  surprise  ! Ah  ! how 
often  have  I wished  to  meet  you  again  to  express  my  gratitude.  ’ 
The  affectionate  reception  she  met,  and  the  unexpected  sight  of 
Miss  Rushbrook,  seemed  to  promise  Amanda  that  her  wishes 
relative  to  Rushbrook  would  not  only  be  accelerated,  but  crowned 
with  success.  She  returned  the  fervent  pressure  of  Miss  Rush- 
brook’s  hand,  and  inquired  after  her  parents — the  inquiry  appeared 
distressing,  and  she  was  answered,  with  hesitation,  that  they  were 
indifferent.  The  evident  embarrassment  her  question  excited 
prevented  her  renewing  it  at  this  time.  The  mistress  of  the  house 
was  not  present,  and  Amanda  requested,  if  she  was  within,  she 
might  see  her  directly.  Miss  Rushbrook  immediately  stepped  to 
a parlor  behind  the  shop,  and  almost  instantly  returned,  followed 
by  the  lady  herself,  who  was  a little  fat  Irish  woman,  past  hei 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


425 


prime,  but  not  past  her  relish  for  the  good  things  of  this  life.  ‘ Dear 
madam,’  said  she,  courtesying  to  Amanda,  ‘ you  are  very  wel- 
come. I protest  I am  glad  to  see  you,  though  I never  had  that 
pleasure  but  once  before  ; but  it  is  no  wonder  I should  be  so,  for 
I have  heard  your  praises  every  day  since,  I am  sure,  from  that 
young  lady,’  looking  at  Miss  Rushbrook.  Amanda  bowed,  but 
her  heart  was  too  full  of  the  purpose  of  this  visit  to  allow  her  to 
speak  about  anything  else.  She  was  just  come  from  the  country, 
she  told  Mrs.  Connel,  where  (she  sighed  as  she  spoke)  she  had 
leit  her  friends,  and,  being  unwilling  to  go  among]  total  stran- 
gers, she  had  come  to  her  house  in  hopes  of  being  able  to  procure 
lodgings  in  it. 

‘ Dear  ma’am,’  said  Mrs.  Connel,  ‘ I protest  I should  have  been 
happy  to  have  accommodated  you,  but  at  present  my  house  is  quite 
full.’ 

The  disappointment  this  speech  gave  Amanda  rendered  her  si- 
lent for  a moment,  and  she  was  then  going  to  ask  Mrs  Connel  if 
she  could  recommend  her  to  a lodging,  when  she  perceived  Miss 
Rushbrook  whispering  to  her.  ‘ Why,  madam,’  cried  the  former, 
who,  by  a nod  of  her  head,  seemed  to  approve  of  what  the  latter 
had  been  saying,  ‘ since  you  dislike  so  much  going  among  stran- 
gers, which,  indeed,  shows  your  prudence,  considering  what  queer 
kind  of  people  are  in  the  world.  Miss  Emily  says,  that  if  you  con- 
descend to  accept  of  part  of  her  little  bed,  till  you  can  settle  your- 
self more  comfortably  in  town,  you  shall  be  extremely  welcome 
to  it;  and  I can  assure  you,  madam,  I shall  do  everything  in  ihy 
power  to  render  my  house  agreeable  to  you.’  ‘ Oh,  most  joyfully, 
most  thankfully,  do  I accept  the  ofPer,’said  Amanda,  whose  heart 
had  sunk  at  the  idea  of  going  among  strangers.  ‘ Any  place,’  she 
continued,  speaking  in  the  fulness  of  that  agitated  heart,  ‘ beneath 
so  reputable  a roof,  would  be  an  asylum  of  comfort  I should  pre- 
fer to  a palace,  if  utterly  unacquainted  with  the  people  who  in- 
habited it.’  Her  trunk  was  now  brought  in,  and  the  carriage  dis- 
charged. ‘I  suppose,  ma’am,’  said  Mrs.  Connel,  looking  at  the 
trunk  on  which  her  assumed  name  was  marked,  ‘ you  are  Scotch 
by  your  name,  though,  indeed,  you  have  not  much  of  the  accent 
about  you.’  ‘ I declare,’  cried  Emily,  also  looking  at  it,  ‘ till  this 
moment  I was  ignorant  of  your  name.’ 

Amanda  was  pleased  to  hear  this,  and  resolved  not  to  disclose 
her  real  one,  except  convinced  Rushbrook  would  interest  himself 
in  her  affairs.  She  was  conducted  into  the  parlor,  which  was 
neatly  furnished,  and  opened  into  the  shop  by  a glass  door.  Mrs. 
Connel  stirred  a declining  fire  into  a cheerful  blaze,  and  desireckto 
know  if  Amanda  would  choose  anything  for  dinner.  ‘ Speak  the 
word  only,  my  dear,’  said  she,  ‘ and  I think  I can  procure  you  a 
cold  bone  in  the  house.  If  you  had  come  two  hours  sooner,  I 


426 


THE  CHILDKEN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


could  have  given  you  a bit  of  nice  veal  for  your  dinner.’  Amanda 
assured  her  she  did  not  wish  to  take  anything  till  tea-time. 

‘ Well,  well,’  cried  Mrs.  Connel,  ‘ you  shall  have  a snug  cup  of 
tea  by  and  by,  and  a hot  muffin  with  it.  I am  very  fond  of  tea. 
myseljf,  though  poor  Mr.  Connel,  who  is  dead  and  gone,  used  often, 
and  oiien  to  say,  ‘ I that  was  so  nervous  should  never  touch  tea;  ^ 
‘ but,  Biddy,’  he  would  say,  and  he  would  laugh  so,  poor  dear 
man,  ‘ you  and  all  your  sex  are  like  your  mother  Eve,  unable  to 
resist  temptation.’ 

Emily  retired  soon  after  Amanda  entered ; but  returned  in  a few 
minutes  with  her  hat  and  cloak  on,  and  said  nothing  but  a visit 
she  must  pay  her  parents  should  have  induced  her  to  forego,  for 
the  first  evening,  at  least,  the  pleasure  of  Miss  Donald’s  society. 
Amanda  thanked  her  for  her  politeness,  but  assured  her  if  con- 
sidered as  a restraint  she  should  be  unhappy. 

‘I  assure  you,’  said  Mrs.  Connel,  as  Emily  departed,  ‘she  is 
very  fond  of  you.’  ‘ I am  happy  to  hear  it,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘ for 
I think  her  a most  amiable  girl.’  ‘ Indeed  she  is,’  cried  the  other; 
‘ all  the  fault  I find  with  her  is  being  too  grave  for  her  time  of 
life.  Poor  thing,  one  cannot  wonder  at  that,  however,  consider- 
ing the  situation  of  her  parents.  ’ ‘ I hope,  ’ interupted  Amanda, 

‘ it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  was.’  ‘ Bad ! Lord ! it  cannot  be  worse ; the 
poor  captain  has  been  in  jail  above  a year.’  ‘ I am  sorry,  ’ said 
Amanda,  ‘ to  hear  this.  Has  any  application  been  made  to  Lady 
Greystock  since  his  confinement?’  ‘ To  Lady  Greystock!  why, 
Lord ! one  might  as  well  apply  to  one  of  the  wild  beasts  in  the 
Tosver ! Ah ! poor  gentleman,  if  he  was  never  to  get  nothing  but 
what  she  gave  him,  I believe  he  would  not  long  be  a trouble  to 
anyone.  It  is  now  about  fourteen  years  since  my  acquaintance 
with  him  first  commenced.  My  poor  husband,  that  is  no  more, 
and  I kept  a shop  in  Dublin,  where  the  captain’s  regiment  was 
quartered,  and  he  being  only  a lieutenant  had  not  room  enough 
for  his  family  in  the  barracks,  so  he  took  lodgings  at  our  house, 
where  Mrs.  Pushbrook  lay  in,  and  I being  with  her  now  and  then 
during  her  confinement,  a kind  of  friendship  grew  up  among  us. 
They  had  not  left  us  long  fco  go  to  America,  when  a relation  of 
my  husband,  who  owned  this  house  and  shop,  having  lost  his 
wife  and  being  lonesome,  without  either  chick  or  child,  invited  us 
to  come  and  live  with  him,  promising  us  if  we  did.  to  settle  us  in 
his  business,  and  leave  us  everything  he  had.  Well,  such  ofPers 
do  not  come  every  day ; so  to  be  sure,  we  took  him  at  his  word ; 
and  here  we  had  not  long  been  when  the  poor  man  bid  adieu  to 
all*  mortal  care,  and  was  soon  followed  by  Mr.  Connel.  Well, 
to  be  sure,  I was  sad  and  solitary  enough;  but  when  I thought 
how  irreligious  it  was  to  break  one’s  heart  with  grief,  I plucked 
up  my  spirits  and  began  to  hold  up  my  head  again.  So  to  make 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


427 


a short  story  of  a long*  one,  about  six  years  ago  Mrs.  Rushbrook 
and  Miss  Emily  came  one  day  into  the  shop  to  buy  something, 
little  thinking  they  should  see  an  old  friend.  It  was,  to  be  sure, 
a meeting  of  joy  and  sorrow,  as  one  may  say.  We  told  all  our 
griefs  to  each  other,  and  I found  things  were  very  bad  with  the 
poor  captain.  Indeed,  I have  a great  regard  for  him  and  his 
family,  and  when  he  was  confined,  I took  Emily  home  as  an  as- 
sistant in  my  business.  The  money  she  earned  was  to  go  to  her 
parents,  and  I agreed  to  give  her  clothes  gratis ; but  that  would 
have  gone  but  a little  way  in  feeding  so  many  mouthes,  had  I not 
procured  plain  work  for  Mrs,  Rushbrook  and  her  daughters. 
Emily  is  a very  good  girl,  indeed,  and  it  is  to  see  her  parents  she 
is  now  gone.  But  while  I am  gabbling  away  I am  sure  the  ket- 
tle is  boiling.’  So  saying  she  started  up,  and  ringing  the  bell, 
took  the  tea  things  from  a beaufet  where  they  were  kept.*  The 
maid  having  obeyed  the  well  known  summons,  then  retired ; and 
as  soon  as  the  tea  was  made,  and  the  mufiins  buttered,  Mrs.  Con- 
nel  made  Amanda  draw  her  chair  close  to  the  table,  that  she 
might,  as  she  said,  look  snug,  and  drink  her  tea  comfortably. 

‘I  assure  you,  madam,’  cried  she,  ‘it  was  a lucky  hour  for  Miss 
Emily  when  she  entered  my  house.’  ‘ I have  no  doubt  of  that,’ 
said  Amanda.  ‘You  must  know,  madam,’  proceeded  Mrs. 
Connel,  ‘ about  a month  ago  a gentleman  came  to  lodge  with  me, 
who  I soon  found  was  making  speeches  to  Miss  Emily.  He  was 
one  of  those  wild  looking  sparks,  who,  like  Ranger  in  the  play, 
looked  as  if  they  would  be  popping  through  everyone’s  doors 
and  windows,  and  playing  such  tricks  as  made  poor  Mr.  Strick- 
land so  jealous  of  his  wife.  Well,  I took  my  gentleman  to  task 
one  day  unawares.  “So,  Mr.  Sipthorpe,”  says  I,  “I  am  told  you 
have  cast  a sheep’s  eye  upon  one  of  my  girls ; but  I must  tell  you 
she  is  a girl  of  virtue  and  family,  so  if  you  do  not  mean  to  deal 
honorably  with  her,  you  must  either  decamp  from  this,  or  speak 
to  her  no  more.”  Upon  this  he  made  me  a speech  as  long  as  a 
member  of  parliament’s  upon  a new  tax.  “ Lord,  Mr.  Sipthorpe,” 
said  I,  “ there  is  no  occasion  for  all  this  oratory,  a few  words  will 
settle  the  business  between  us.”  Well,  this  was  coming  close  to 
the  point,  you  will  say,  and  he  told  me  then  he  always  meant  to 
deal  honorably  by  Miss  Emily,  and  told  me  all  about  his  circum- 
stances; and  I found  he  had  a fine  fortune,  which  indeed  I partly 
guessed  before  from  the  appearance  he  made,  and  he  said  he 
would  not  only  marry  Miss  Emily,  but  take  her  parents  out  of 
prison,  and  provide  for  the  whole  family.  Well,  now  comes  the 
provoking  part  of  the  story.  A young  clergyman  had  been  kind 
at  the  beginning  of  their  distress  to  them,  and  he  and  Miss  Emily 
took  it  into  their  heads  to  fall  in  love  with  each  other.  Well,  her 
parenis  gave  their  consent  to  their  being  married,  which  to  be 


428 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


sure  I thought  a very  foolish  thing,  knowing  the  young  man’s 
inability  to  serve  them.  To  be  sure  he  promised  fair  enough; 
but,  Lord!  what  could  a poor  curate  do  for  them,  particularly 
when  he  got  a wife  and  a house  full  of  children  of  his  own  ? I 
thought ; so  I supposed  they  would  be  quite  glad  to  be  oft*  with 
him,  and  to  give  her  to  Mr.  Sipthorpe ; but  no  such  thing,  I assure 
you.  When  I mentioned  it  to  them,  one  talked  of  honor,  and 
another  of  gratitude,  and  as  to  Miss  Emily,  she  fairly  went  into 
fits.  Well,  I thought  I would  serve  them  in  spite  of  themselves, 
so,  knowing  the  curate  to  be  a romantic  young  fellow,  I writes 
off  to  him,  and  tells  him  what  a cruel  thing  it  would  be,  if,  for 
his  own  gratification,  he  kept  Miss  Emily  to  her  word,  and  made 
her  lose  a match  which  would  free  her  family  from  all  their  diffi- 
culties ; and,  in  short,  I touched  upon  his  passion  not  a little,  I 
assure  you,  and,  as  I hoped,  a letter  came  from  him,  in  which  he 
told  her  he  gave  her  up.  Well,  to  be  sure  there  was  sad  work 
when  it  came — with  her,  I mean,  for  the  captain  and  his  wife 
were  glad  enough  of  it,  I believe,  in  their  hearts ; so  at  last  every- 
thing was  settled  for  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Sipthorpe,  and  he 
made  a nvimber  of  handsome  presents  to  her,  I assure  you,  and 
they  are  to  be  married  in  a few  days.  He  is  only  waiting  for  his 
rents  in  the  country  to  take  the  captain  out  of  prison ; but  here 
is  Miss  Emily,  instead  of  being  quite  merry  and  joyful,  is  as  dull 
and  as  melancholy  as  if  she  was  going  to  be  married  to  a fright- 
ful old  man.’  ‘Consider,’  said  Amanda,  ‘you  have  just  said  her 
heart  was  pre-engaged.  ’ ‘ Lord ! ’ cried  Mrs.  Connel,  * a girl  at 

her  time  of  life  can  change  her  love  as  easily  as  her  cap.’  ‘I 
sincerely  hope,  ’ exclaimed  Amanda,  ‘ that  she  either  has,  or  may 
soon  be  able  to  transfer  hers.’  ‘And  now,  pray,  madam,’ said 
Mrs.  Connel,  with  a look  which  seemed  to  say  Amanda  should 
be  as  communicative  as  she  had  been,  ‘ may  I ask  from  whence 
you  have  traveled  ? ’ ‘From  a i emote  part  of  Scotland.’  ‘Dear, 
what  a long  journey ! — Lord ! they  say  that  is  a very  desolate 
place,  without  never  a tree  or  a bush  in  it.’  ‘I  assure  you,  it 
wants  neither  shade  nor  verdure,’  replied  Amanda.  ‘Really; 
well.  Lord,  what  lies  some  people  tell ! Pray,  ma’am,  may  I ask 
what  countrywoman  you  are  ? ’ ‘ Welsh,  ’ said  Amanda.  ‘ Really ; 
well,  I suppose,  ma’am,  you  have  had  many  a scramble  up  the 
mountains,  after  the  goats,  which  they  say  are  naarvelous  plenty 
in  that  part  of  the  world.’  ‘ No,  indeed,’  replied  Amanda.  ‘Are 
you  come  to  make  any  long  stay  in  London,  ma’am  ? ’ ‘I  have 
not  determined.’  ‘I  suppose  you  have  come  about  a little  busi- 
ness, ma’am?’  resumed  Mrs.  Connel.  ‘Yes,’  replied  Amanda. 
‘To  be  sure,  not  an  affair  of  great  consequence,  or  so  young  a 
lady  would  not  have  undertaken  it.’  Amanda  smiled,  but  made 
no  reply,  and  was  at  length  relieved  from  these  tiresome  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


429 


inquisitive  questions  by  Mrs.  ConneFs  calling  in  her  girls  to  tea  ^ 
after  which  she  washed  the  tea  things,  put  them  into  the  beaufet, 
and  left  the  room  to  order  something  comfortable  for  supper. 
Left  to  herself,  Amanda  reflected  that  at  the  present  juncture  of 
Hushbrook’s  affairs,  when  his  attention  and  time  were  engrossed 
by  the  approaching  settlement  of  his  daughter,  an  application  to 
him,  on  her  own  account,  would  be  not  only  impertinent,  but 
unavailing;  she  therefore  determined  to  wait  till  the  hurry  and 
agitation  produced  by  such  an  event  had  subsided,  and  most  sin- 
cerely did  she  hope  that  it  might  be  productive  of  felicity  to  all. 
Mrs.  Connel  was  not  long  absent,  and  Emily  returned  almost  at 
the  moment  she  re-entered  the  room.  ‘Well,  miss,’ said  Mrs. 
Connel,  addressing  her  ere  she  had  time  to  speak  to  Amanda,  ‘ I 
have  been  telling  your  good  friend  here  all  about  your  affairs.’ 

‘ Have  you,  ma’am  ? ’ cried  Emily,  with  a faint  smile,  and  a 
dejected  voice.  Amanda  looked  earnestly  in  her  face,  and  saw 
an  expression  of  the  deepest  sadness  in  it.  From  her  own  heart 
she  readily  imagined  what  her  feelings  must  be  at  such  a disap- 
pointment as  Mrs.  Connel  had  mentioned,  and  felt  the  sincerest 
pity  for  her.  Mrs.  ConneFs  volubility  tormented  them  both  ; 
supper  happily  terminated  it,  as  she  was  then  much  better  em- 
ployed, in  her  own  opinion,  than  she  could  possibly  have  been  in 
talking.  Amanda’pleaded  fatigue  for  retiring  early.  Mrs.  Connel 
advised  her  to  try  a few  glasses  of  wine  as  a restorative,  but  she 
begged  to  be  excused,  and  was  allowed  to  retire  with  Emily.  The 
chamber  was  small  but  neat,  and  enlivened  by  a good  fire,  to 
which  Amanda  and  Emily  sat  down  while  undressing.  The  latter 
eagerly  availed  herself  of  this  opportunity  to  express  the  gratitude 
of  her  heart.  Amanda  tried  to  change  the  discourse,  but  could 
not  succeed.  ‘ Long,  madam,’  continued  Emily,  ‘ have  we  wished 
to  return  our  thanks  for  a benefaction  so  delicately  conveyed  as 
yours,  and  happy  were  my  parents  to-night  when  I informed 
them  I could  now  express  their  grateful  feelings.’  ‘Though  in- 
terested exceedingly  in  your  affairs,  said  Amanda,  making  another 
effort  to  change  the  discourse,  ‘ be  assured  I never  should  have 
taken  the  liberty  of  inquiring  minutely  into  them,  and  I men- 
tion this,  lest  you  might  suppose  from  what  Mrs.  Connel  said,  that 
I had  done  so.’  ‘No,  madam,’ replied  Emily,  ‘I  had  no  such 
idea,  and  an  inquiry  from  you  would  be  rather  pleasing  than 
otherwise,  because  I should  then  flatter  myself  you  might  be  in- 
duced to  listen  to  griefs  which  have  long  wanted  the  consola- 
tion of  sympathy — such,  I am  sure,  as  they  would  receive  from 
you.’  ‘ Happy  should  I be,’  cried  Amanda,  ‘ had  I the  power  of 
alleviating  them.  ’ ‘ Oh ! madam , you  have  the  power, ' said  Emily, 
*for  you  would  commiserate  them,  and  commiseration  from  you 
would  be  balm  to  my  heart  ; you  would  strengthen  me  in  my 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


^^30 

duties — you  would  instruct  me  in  resignation  ; but  I am  selfish 
in  desiring  to  intrude  them  on  you.’  ‘ No,’  replied  Amanda,  tak- 
ing her  hand,  ‘ you  flatter  me  by  such  a desire.’  ‘ Then,  madam, 
while  you  are  undressing,  I will  give  myself  the  melancholy  in- 
dulgence of  relating  my  little  story.’ 

CHAPTER  LI. 

Take  heed,  take  heed,  thou  lovely  maid. 

Nor  be  by  glittering  ills  betrayed. 

‘To  open  our  hearts  to  those  we  know  will  commiserate  our  sor- 
rows is  the  sweetest  consolation  those  sorrows  can  receive  ; to 
you,  then,  madam,  I divulge  mine,  sure  at  least  of  pity.  At  the 
time  I first  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  you,  the  little  credit  my 
father  had  was  exhausted,  and  his  inability  to  pay  being  well 
known  he  was  arrested  one  evening  as  he  sat  j,by  the  bedside  of 
my  almost  expiring  mother  ! I will  not  pain  your  gentle  nature 
by  dwelling  on  the  horrors  of  that  moment,  on  the  agonies  of  a 
parent  and  husband  torn  from  a family  so  situated  as  was  my 
father’s.  Feeble,  emaciated,  without  even  sufficient  clothing  to 
guard  him  from  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  he  leaned  upon 
the  arm  of  one  of  the  bailiffs,  as  he  turned  his  eyes  from  that  wife 
he  never  more  expected  to  behold.  She  fainted  at  the  moment 
he  left  the  room,  and  it  was  many  minutes  ere  I had  power  to 
approacii  her.  The  long  continuance  of  her  fit  at  length  recalled 
my  distracted  thoughts  ; but  I had  no  restoratives  to  apply,  no 
assistance  to  recover  her,  for  my  eldest  brother  had  followed  my 
father,  and  the  rest  of  the  children,  terrified  by  the  scene  they  had 
witnessed,  wept  together  in  a corner  of  the  room.  I at  last  recol- 
lected a lady  who  lived  nearly  opposite  to  us,  and  from  whom  I 
hoped  to  procure  some  relief  for  her.  Nothing  but  the  present 
emergency  could  have  made  me  apply  to  her,  for  the  attention 
she  had  paid  us  on  first  coming  to  Mr.  Heathfield’s  was  entirely 
withdrawn  after  his  death.  Pride,  however,  was  forgotten  at  tho 
present  moment,  and  I flew  to  her  house.  The  servant  showed 
me  into  a parlor,  where  she,  her  daughters,  and  a young  clergy« 
man  I had  never  before  seen,  were  sitting  at  tea.  I could  not 
bring  myself  to  mention  my  distress  before  a stranger,  and  ac- 
cordingly begged  to  speak  to  her  in  another  room  ; but  she  told 
me  in  a blunt  manner  I might  speak  there.  In  a low  and  falter- 
ing voice,  which  sighs  and  tears  often  impeded,  I acquainted  her 
of  what  had  happened,  the  situation  of  my  mother,  and  requested 
a cordial  for  he:^.  How  great  was  my  confusion  when  she  de- 
clared aloud  all  I had  told  her,  and  turning  to  her  daughter,  bid 
her  give  me  part  of  a bottle  of  wine.  ‘ ‘Ay,  ay,”  cried  she,  ‘ ‘ I always 
thought  things  would  turn  out  so.  It  was  really  very  foolish  of 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


431 


Mr.  Heathfield  to  bring  you  to  his  house,  and  lead  you  all  into 
such  expenses  ! ” I listened  to  no  more,  but  taking  the  wine  with 
a silent  pang,  retired. 

‘ I had  not  been  many  minutes  returned,  and  was  kneeling  by 
the  bedside  of  my  mother,  who  began  to  show  some  symptoms  of 
returning  life,  when  a gentle  knock  came  to  the  hall  door.  I sup- 
posed  it  my  brother,  and  bade  one  of  the  children  fly  to  open  it* 
What  was  my  surprise  when  in  a few  minutes  she  returned, 
followed  by  the  young  clergyman  I had  just  seen.  I started  from 
my  kneeling  posture,  and  my  looks  expressed  my  wonder.  He 
approached,  and  in  the  soft  accent  of  benevolence,  apologized  for 
his  intrusion  ; but  said  he  came  with  a hope  and  a wish  that  he 
might  be  serviceable.  Oh  ! how  soothing  was  his  voice  ! Oh  I 
how  painfully  pleasing  the  voice  of  tenderness  to  the  wretched  t 
The  tears  which  pride  and  indignation  had  suspended  but  a few" 
moments  before  again  began  flowing. 

‘ But  I will  not  dwell  upon  my  feelings  ; suffice  it  to  say,  that 
every  attention  which  could  mitigate  my  wretchedness  he  paid^ 
and  that  his  efforts,  aided  by  mine,  soon  restored  my  mother* 
His  looks,  his  manner,  his  profession,  all  conspired  to  calm  her 
spirits,  and  she  blessed  the  power  which  so  unexpectedly  had 
given  us  a friend.  My  brother  returned  from  my  father  merely 
to  inquire  how  we  were,  and  to  go  back  to  him  directly.  The 
stranger  requested  permission  to  accompany  him  ; a request  most 
pleasing  to  us,  as  we  trusted  his  soothing  attention  would  have 
the  same  effect  upon  his  sorrowing  heart  as  it  had  upon  ours. 
Scarcely  were  they  gone  ere  a man  arrived  from  a neighboring 
hotel  with  a basket  loaded  with  wine  and  provisions.  But  to 
enumerate  every  instance  of  this  young  man’s  goodness  would  be 
encroaching  upon  your  patience.  In  short,  by  his  care,  my 
mother  in  a few  days  was  able  to  be  carried  to  my  father’s  prison. 
Mrs.  Connel,  who,  on  the  first  intimation  of  our  distress,  had 
come  to  us,  took  me  into  the  house  at  a stated  salary’’,  which  wa>> 
to  be  given  to  my  parents,  and  the  rest  of  the  children  were  t 
continue  with  them.  My  mother  desired  me  one  evening  to  ta,>  ; 
a walk  with  the  children  to  Kensington,  as  she  thought  them  Li 
jured  by  constant  confinement.  Our  friend  attended  us,  and  on 
our  way  thither,  informed  me  that  he  must  soon  leave  town,  as 
he  was  but  a country  curate,  and  his  leave  of  absence  from  his 
rector  was  expired.  It  was  above  a month  since  we  had  known 
him,  during  which  time  his  attentions  were  unremitting,  and  he 
was  a source  of  comfort  to  us  all.  A sudden  chill  came  over  iny 
heart  as  he  spoke,  and  every  sorrow  at  that  moment  seemed  ag- 
grav^ated.  On  entering  Kensington  Gardens,  1 seated  myself  on  a 
little  rising  mount,  for  I felt  trembling  and  fatigued,  and  he  sat 
beside  me.  Never  had  I before  felt  so  oppressed,  and  my  tearg 


432 


THB  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


gusLed  forth  in  spite  of  my  efforts  to  restrain  them.  Something 
I said  of  their  being  occasioned  by  the  recollection  of  the  period 
when  my  parents  enjoyed  the  charming  scene  I now  contem- 
plated along  with  him.  “ Would  to  Heaven,”  cried  he,  “I  could 
restore  them  again  to  the  enjoyment  of  it.” 

“ Ah,”  said  I,  “ they  already  lie  under  unreturnable  obligations 
to  you.  In  losing  you,”  added  I,  involuntarily,  “ they  would  lose 
their  only  comfort.”  “ Since  then,”  cried  he,  “ you  flatter  me  by 
saying  it  is  in  my  power  to  give  them  comfort,  oh  ! let  them 
have  a constant  claim  upon  me  for  it  ! O Emily  I ” he  con- 
tinued, taking  my  hand,  “let  them  be  my  parents  as  well  as 
yours  ; then  will  their  too  scrupulous  delicacy  be  conquered,  and 
they  will  receive  as  a right  what  they  now  consider  as  a favor.” 
I felt  my  cheeks  glow  with  blushes,  but  still  did  not  perfectly  con- 
ceive his  meaning.  ‘ ‘ My  destiny  is  humble,  ” he  continued  ; 
“ was  it  otherwise,  I should  long  since  have  entreated  you  to 
share  it  with  me.  Could  you  be  prevailed  on  to  do  so  you  would 
give  it  pleasures  it  never  yet  experienced.”  He  paused  for  a re- 
ply, but  I was  unable  to  give  one. 

‘ Ah  ! madam,  how  little  necessity  either  was  there  for  one  ; 
my  looks,  my  confusion,  betrayed  my  feelings.  He  urged  me  to 
speak,  and  at  last  I acknowledged  I should  not  hesitate  to  share 
his  destiny,  but  for  my  parents,  who  by  such  a measure  would  lose 
my  assistance.  “Oh  ! do  not  think,”  cried  he,  “I  would  ever 
wish  to  tempt  you  into  any  situation  which  should  make  you 
neglect  them.  ” He  then  proceeded  to  say  that,  though  unable  at 
present  to  liberate  them,  yet  he  trusted  if  they  consented  to  our 
union,  he  should  by  economy  be  enabled  to  contribute  more  essen- 
tially to  their  support  then  I could  do,  and  also  be  able  in  a 
short  time  to  discharge  their  debts.  His  proposals  were  made 
known  to  them,  and  met  their  warmest  approbation.  The  pleas- 
ure they  derived  from  them  was  more  on  my  account  than  their 
own,  as  the  idea  of  having  me  so  settled  removed  a weight  of 
anxiety  from  their  minds  ; some  of  my  brothers  and  sisters 
should  live  with  us,  he  said,  and  promised  my  time  should  be 
chiefly  spent  in  doing  fine  works,  which  should  be  sent  to  Mrs. 

, Connel  to  dispose  of  for  my  parents  ; and  also  that,  from  time  to 

1 time,  I should  visit  them  till  I had  the  power  of  bringing  them  to 
my  cottage,  for  such  he  described  his  residence. 

‘ He  was  compelled  to  go  to  the  country,  but  it  was  settled  he 
should  return  in  a short  time,  and  have  everything  finally  settled. 
In  about  a week  after  his  departure,  as  I was  returning  one 
morning  from  a lady’s,  where  I had  been  on  a message  from  Mrs. 
Connel,  a gentleman  joined  me  in  the  street,  and  with  a rude 
familiarity  endeavored  to  enter  into  conversation  with  me.  I en- 
deavored to  shake  him  off,  but  could  not  succeed,  and  hastened 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


43S 


home  with  the  utmost  expedition,  whither  I saw  he  followed  me* 
I thought  no  more  of  the  incident  till  about  two  days  after  I saw 
him  enter  the  shop,  and  heard  him  inquire  of  Mrs.  Connel  about 
her  lodgings,  which  to  my  great  mortification  he  immediately  took, 
for  I could  not  help  suspecting  he  had  some  improper  motive  for 
taking  them.  I resolved,  however,  if  such  a motive  really  existed, 
to  disappoint  it  by  keeping  out  of  his  way  ; but  all  my  vigilance 
was  unavailing  ; he  was  continually  on  the  watch  for  me,  and  I 
could  not  go  up  or  downstairs  without  being  insulted  by  him. 
I at  length  informed  Mrs.  Connel  of  his  conduct,  and  entreated 
her  to  fulfill  the  sacred  trust  her  friends  reposed  in  her,  when 
they  gave  me  to  her  care,  by  terminating  the  insults  of  Mr.  Sip- 
thorpe.  Alas!  could  I have  possibly  foreseen  the  consequences; 
that  would  have  followed  my  application  to  her,  I should  have 
borne  these  insults  in'  silence.  She  has  already  informed  you  of 
them.  Oh  ! madam  ! when  the  letter  came  which  dissolved  a 
promise  so  cheerfully,  so  fondly  given,  every  prospect  of  felicity 
was  in  a moment  overshadowed  1 For  a long  time  I resisted 
every  effort  that  was  made  to  prevail  on  me  to  marry  Sipthorpe  ; 
but  when  at  last  my  mother  Said  she  was  sorry  to  find  my  feel- 
ings less  than  his,  who  had  so  generously  resigned  me,  that  my 
father  might  be  extricated  from  his  difficulties,  I shrunk  with, 
agony  at  the  rebuke.  I wondered,  I was  shocked,  how  I could 
have  so  long  hesitated  to  open  the  prison  gates  of  my  father,  and 
determined  from  that  moment  to  sacrifice  myself  for  him  ; for 
oh  1 Miss  Donald,  it  is  a sacrifice  of  the  most  dreadful  nature  I am 
about  making.  Sipthorpe  is  a man  I never  could  have  liked,  had. 
my  heart  even  been  disengaged.  ’ 

Amanda  felt  the  truest  pity  for  her  young  friend,  who  ended 
her  narrative  in  tears  ; but  she  did  not,  by  yielding  entirely  ta 
that  pity  (as  too  many  girls  with  tender  hearts,  but  weak  heads, 
might  have  done),  heighten  the  sorrow  of  Miss  Rushbrook.  She 
proved  her  friendship  and  sympathy  more  sincerely  than  she 
could  have  done  by  mere  expressions  of  condolement,  which  feed 
the  grief  they  commiserate,  in  trying  to  reconcile  her  to  a destiny 
that  seemed  irrevocable.  She  pointed  out  the  claims  a parent 
had  upon  a child,  and  dwelt  upon  the  delight  a child  experienced 
when  conscious  of  fulfilling  those  claims.  She  spoke  of  the  rap- 
ture attending  the  triumph  of  reason  and  humanity  over  self  and 
passion,  and  mentioned  the  silent  plaudits  of  the  heart  as  superior 
to  all  gratification  or  external  advantages.  She  spoke  from  the 
real  feelings  of  her  soul.  She  recollected  the  period  at  which,  to 
a father’s  admonition,  she  had  resigned  a lover,  and  had  that 
father  been  in  Captain  Rushbrook’s  situation,  and  the  same  sacri- 
fice been  demanded  from  her  as  from  Emily,  she  felt,  without 
hesitation,  she  would  have  made  it.  She  was  indeed  a moni-res» 


434 


THE  .CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


that  had  practiced,  and  would  practice  (was  there  a necessity  for 
so  doing)  the  lessons  she  gave,  not  as  poor  Ophelia  says  : 

Like  some  ungracious  pastors, 

Who  show  the  ste6p  and  thorny  path  to  heaven, 

But  take  the  primrose  one  themselves. 

The  sweet  consciousness  of  this  grave  energy,  gave  more  than 
visual  eloquence  to  her  language  ; but  while  she  wished  to  inspirit 
her  young  friend,  she  felt,  from  the  tenderness  of  her  nature,  and 
the  sad  situation  of  her  own  heart,  what  that  friend  must  feel 
2rom  disappointed  affection  and  a reluctant  union.  Scarcely 
icould  she  refrain  from  weeping  over  a fate  so  wretched,  and 
which  she  was  tempted  to  think  as  dreadful  as  her  own  ; but  a 
little  reflection  soon  convinced  her  she  had  the  sad  pre-eminence 
of  misery ; for  in  her  fate  there  were  none  of  those  alleviations 
as  in  Emily’s,  which  she  was  convinced  must,  in  some  degree, 
reconcile  her  to  it.  Her  sufferings,  unlike  Emily’s,  would  not 
be  rewarded  by  knowing  that  they  contributed  to  the  comfort  of 
those  dearest  to  her  heart. 

‘Your  words,  my  dear  madam,’  said  Emily,  ‘have  calmed  my 
spirits ; henceforth  I will  be  more  resolute  in  trying  to  banish  re- 
grets from  my  mind.  But  I have  been  inconsiderate  to  a degree 
in  keeping  you  so  long  from  rest,  after  your  fatiguing  journey.’ 
Amanda  indeed  appeared  at  this  moment  nearly  exhausted  and 
gladly  hastened  to  bed.  Her  slumbers  were  short  and  unrefresh- 
ing; the  cares  which  clung  to  her  heart  w^hen  waking  were 
‘equally  oppressive  while  sleeping.  Lord  Mortimer  mingled  in  the 
meditations  of  the  morning,  in  the  visions  of  the  night,  and  when 
she  awoke  she  found  her  pillow  wet  with  the  tears  she  had  shed 
on  his  account.  Emily  was  already  up,  but  on  Amanda’s  draw- 
ing back  the  curtain  she  laid  down  the  book  she  was  reading,  and 
oame  to  her.  She  saw  she  looked  extremely  ill,  and,  imputing 
;;his  to  fatigue,  requested  she  would  breakfast  in  bed ; but  Amanda, 
who  knew  her  illness  proceeded  from  a cause  which  neither  rest 
nor  assiduous  care  could  cure,  refused  complying  with  this  request 
and  immediately  dressed  herself. 

As  she  stood  at  the  toilet,  Emily  suddenly  exclaimed,  ‘ If  you 
bave  a mind  to  see  Sipthorpe,  I will  show  him  to  you  now,  for  he 
isjust  going  out.’  Amanda  went  to  the  window,  which  Emily 
gently  opened;  but,  oh!  what  was  the  shock  of  that  moment, 
when  in  Sipthorpe  she  recognized  the  insidious  Belgrave!  A 
shivering  horror  ran  through  her  veins,  and  recoiling  a few  paces 
she  sunk  half  fainting  on  a chair.  Emily,  terrified  by  her  appear- 
^ance,  was  flying  to  the  bell  to  ring  for  assistance,  when,  by  a 
faint  motion  of  her  hand,  Amanda  prevented  her.  ‘ I shall  soon 
be  better,’  said  she,  speaking  with  difficulty;  ‘ but  I will  lie  down 
on  the  bed  for  a few  minutes,  and  I beg  you  may  go  to  youi 


THE  CHILDEEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


435 


breakfast.’  Emily  refused  to  go  and  entreated  that  instead  ot 
leaving  her,  she  might  have  breakfast  brought  up  for  them  both. 
Amanda  assured  her  she  could  take  nothing  at  present,  and 
wished  for  quiet.  Emily  therefore  reluctantly  left  her.  Aman- 
da now  endeavored  to  compose  her  distracted  thoughts,  and  quiet 
the  throbbings  of  her  agonizing  heart,  that  she  might  be  able  to 
arrange  some  plan  for  extricating  herself  from  her  present  situa- 
tion, which  appeared  replete  with  every  danger  to  her  imagination, 
for,  from  the  libertine  principles  of  Belgrave,  she  could  not  hope 
that  a new  object  of  pursuit  would  detach  him  from  her,  when  he 
found  her  so  unexpectedly  thrown  in  his  way.  Unprotected  as 
she  was,  she  could  not  think  of  openly  avowing  her  knowledge 
of  Belgrave.  To  discover  his  baseness  required  therefore  cau- 
tion and  deliberation,  lest  in  saving  Emily  from  the  snare  spread 
for  her  destruction,  she  should  entangle  herself  in  it.  To  declare 
at  once  his  real  character,  must  betray  her  to  him;  and  though 
she  might  banish  him  from  the  house,  yet,  unsupported  as  she 
was  by  her  friends  or  kindred — unable  to  procure  the  protection 
of  Rushbrook,  in  his  present  situation,  however  willing  he  might 
be  to  extend  it — she  trembled  to  think  of  the  dangers  to  which,  by 
thus  discovering,  she  might  expose  herself — dangers  which  the 
deep  treachery  and  daring  effrontery  of  Belgrave  would,  in  all 
probability,  prevent  her  escaping.  As  the  safest  measure,  she 
resolved  on  quitting  the  house  in  the  course  of  the  day;  but  with- 
out giving  any  intimation  that  she  meant  not  to  return  to  it^ 
She  recollected  a place  where  there  was  a probability  of  her  get- 
ting lodgings  which  would  be  at  once  secret  and  secure ; and  by 
an  anonymous  letter  to  Captain  Rushbrook,  she  intended  to  ac- 
quaint him  of  his  daughter’s  danger,  and  refer  him  to  Sir  Charles 
Bingley,  at  whose  agent’s  he  could  receive  intelligence  of  him  for 
the  truth  of  what  she  said.  Her  plan  concerted,  she  grew  more 
composed,  and  was  able,  when  Emily  entered  the  room  with  her 
breakfast,  to  ask,  in  a seemingly  careless  manner,  when  Mr.  Sip- 
thorpe  was  expected  back. 

‘ It  is  very  uncertain,  indeed,’  answered  she. 

‘I  must  go  out  in  the  course  of  the  day,’  said  Amanda,  ‘about 
particular  business:  I may  therefore  as  well  prepare  myself  at 
once  for  it.’  She  accordingly  put  on  her  habit,  and  requested  ma- 
terials for  writing  from  Emily,  which  were  immediately  brought^ 
and  Emily  then  retired  till  she  had  written  her  letter.  Amanda, 
left  to  herself,  hastily  unlocked  her  little  trunk,  and  taking  from 
it  two  changes  of  linen, and  the  will  and  narrative  of  Lady  Dun- 
reath,  she  deposited  the  two  former  in  her  pocket,  and  the  two 
latter  in  her  bosom,  then  sat  down  and  wrote  the  following  letter 
to  Captain  Rushbrook : 

A person  who  esteems  the  character  of  Captain  Rushbrook,  and  the  amiahif* 


436 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


plicity  of  his  daughter,  cautions  him  to  guard  that  simplicity  against  the  danger  which 
now  threatens  it  from  a wretch  who,  under  the  sacred  semblance  of  virtue,  designs  to 
fix  a sharper  sting  in  the  bosom  of  affliction  than  adversity  ever  yet  implanted.  The 
worth  of  Sipthorpe  is  not  more  fictitious  than  his  name.  His  real  one  is  Belgrave. 
His  hand  is  already  another’s,  and  his  character  for  many  years  past  marked  with  in- 
stances of  deceit,  if  not  equal  at  least  little  inferior  to  the  present.  For  the  truth  of 
these  assertions,  the  writer  of  the  letter  refers  Captain  Rushbrook  to  Sir  Charles  Bing- 

ley,  of regiment,  from  whose  agent  a direction  may  be  procured  to  him,  certain, 

from  his  honor  and  sensibility,  he  will  eagerly  step  forward  to  save  worth  and  inno- 
cence from  woe  and  destruction. 

Amanda’s  anxiety  about  Emily  being  equal  to  what  she  felt  for 
herself,  she  resolved  to  leave  this  letter  at  Rushbrook’s  prison, 
lest  any  accident  should  happen  if  it  went  by  any  other  hands. 
She  was  anxious  to  be  gone,  but  thought  it  better  to  wait  till 
toward  evening,  when  there  would  be  the  least  chance  of  meeting 
Belgrave,  who  at  that  time  would  probably  be  fixed  in  some  place 
for  the  remainder  of  the  day.  Emily  returned  in  about  an  hour, 
and  finding  Amanda  disengaged,  requested  permission  to  sit 
with  her,  Amanda,  in  her  present  agitation,  would  have  pre^ 
ferred  solitude,  but  could  not  decline  the  company  of  the  affec- 
tionate girl,  who,  in  conversing  with  her,  sought  to  forget  the 
heavy  cares  which  the  dreadful  idea  of  a union  with  Sipthorpe 
had  drawn  upon  her.  Amanda  listened  with  a beating  heart  to 
every  sound,  but  no  intimation  of  Belgrave’s  return  reached  her 
ear.  At  length  they  were  summoned  to  dinner;  but  Amanda 
could  not  think  of  going  to  it,  lest  she  should  be  seen  by  him. 
To  avoid  this  risk,  and  also  the  particularity  of  a refusal,  she  de- 
termined immediately  to  go  out,  and  having  told  Emily  her  in- 
tention, they  both  descended  the  stairs  together.  Emily  pressed 
her  exceedingly  to  stay  for  dinner,  but  she  positively  refused,  and 
left  the  house  with  a beating  heart,  without  having  answered 
Emily's  question,  who  desired  to  know  if  she  would  not  soon  re- 
turn. Thus  perpetually  threatened  with  danger,  like  a frighted 
bird  again  was  she  to  seek  a shelter  for  her  innocent  head.  She 
walked  with  quickness  to  Oxford  Street,  where  she  directly  pro- 
cured a carriage,  but  was  so  weak  and  agitated  the  coachman  was 
almost  obliged  to  lift  her  into  it.  She  directed  it  to  the  prison,  and 
on  reaching  it  sent  for  one  of  the  turnkeys,  to  whom  she  gave  her 
letter  for  Rushbrook,  wfith  a particular  charge  to  deliver  it  imme- 
diately to  him.  She  then  ordered  the  carriage  to  Pall  Mall,  where 
it  may  be  remembered  she  had  once  lodged  with  Lady  Greystock. 
This  was  the  only  lodging-house  in  London  she  knew,  and  in  it 
she  expected  no  satisfaction  but  what  would  be  derived  from  think- 
ing herself  safe,  as  its  mistress  was  a woman  of  a most  unpleasant 
temper.  She  had  once  been  in  affluent  circumstances,  and  the 
remembrance  of  those  circumstances  soured  her  temper,  and 
rendered  her,  if  not  incapable  of  enjoying,  at  least  unwilling  to 
acknowledge,  the  blessings  she  yet  possessed.  On  anyone  in  her 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


437 


power  she  ventured  her  spleen.  Her  chief  pursuit  was  the  gratis 
tication  of  a most  insatiate  curiosity,  and  her  first  delight  relating 
the  affairs,  good  or  bad,  which  that  curiosity  dived  into.  Amanda, 
finding  she  was  within,  dismissed  the  coach,  and  was  shown  by 
the  maid  into  the  back  parlor,  where  she  sat.  ‘ Oh,  dear ! ’ cried 
she,  with  a supercilious  smile,  the  moment  Amanda  entered,  with- 
out rising  from  her  chair  to  return  her  salute,  ‘ when  did  you  re- 
turn to  London? — and  pray  may  I ask  what  brought  you  back  to 
it?  ’ 

Amanda  was  convinced  from  Mrs.  Hansard’s  altered  manner, 
who  had  once  been  servile  to  a degree  to  her,  that  she  was  per- 
fectly acquainted  with  her  destitute  condition,  and  a heavy  sigh, 
burst  from  her  heart  at  the  idea  of  associating  with  a woman  who 
had  the  meanness  to  treat  her  ill  because  of  that  condition.  A 
chillness  crept  through  her  frame  when  she  reflected  her  sad  situ- 
ation might  long  compel  her  to  this.  Sick,  weak,  exhausted,  she 
sunk  upon  a chair,  which  she  had  neither  been  offered  or  desired 
to  take.  ‘ Well,  miss,  and  pray  what  is  your  business  in  town?  ^ 
again  asked  Mrs.  Hansard,  with  an  increased  degree  of  pert- 
ness. 

‘My  business,  madam,’  replied  Amanda,  ‘can  be  of  no  conse- 
quence to  a person  not  connected  with  me.  My  business  wi^h  you 
is  to  know  whether  you  can  accomodate  me  with  lodgings?  ’ 
‘ Eeally.  Well,  you  might  have  paid  me  the  compliment  of  say- 
ing you  would  have  called  at  any  rate  to  know  how  I did.  You 
may  guess  how  greatly  flattered  an  humble  being  like  me  would 
be  by  the  notice  of  so  amiable  a young  lady. 

These  words  were  pronounced  with  a kind  of  sneer  that,  by 
rousing  the  pride  of  Amanda,  a little  revived  her  spirits.  ‘ I 
should  be  glad,  madam,’  said  she,  with  a composed  voice,  while  a 
faint  glow  stole  over  her  cheek,  ‘ to  know  whether  you  can,  or 
choose,  to  accommodate  me  with  lodgings  ? ’ ‘ Lord,  my  dear,  ’ re- 

plied Mrs.  Hansard,  ‘ do  not  be  in  such  a wondrous  hurry — take 
a cup  of  tea  with  me,  and  then  we  will  settle  about  that  business.^ 
These  words  implied  that  she  would  comply  with  the  wish  of 
Amanda;  and,  however  disagreeable  the  asylum,  yet  to  have  se- 
cured one  cheered  her  sinking  heart.  Tea  was  soon  made,  which 
to  Amanda,  who  had  touched  nothing  since  breakfast — and  but 
little  then — would  have  been  a pleasant  refreshment,  had  she  not 
been  tormented  and  fatigued  by  the  questions  of  Mrs.  Hansard, 
who  laid  a thousand  baits  to  betray  her  into  a full  confession  of 
what  had  brought  her  to  London.  Amanda,  though  a stranger 
in  herself  to  every  species  of  art,  from  fatal  experience  was  aware 
of  it  in  others,  and  therefore  guarded  her  secret.  Mrs.  Hansard, 
who  lovedjwhat  she  called  a gossiping  cup  of  tea,  sat  a tedious 
lame  over  the  tea  table.  Amanda,  at  last  mortified  and  alarmed 


438 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


by  some  expressions  which  dropped  from  her,  again  ventured  to 
ask  if  she  could  be  lodged  under  her  roof. 

‘ Are  you  really  serious  in  that  question  ? ’ said  Mrs.  Hansard. 
There  was  a certain  expression  of  contempt  in  her  features  as  she 
spoke,  which  shocked  Amanda  so  much  that  she  had  not  power  to 
reply;  ‘because  if  you  are,  my  dear,’  continued  Mrs.  Hansard, 
^ you  have  more  assurance  than  I thought  you  were  possessed  of, 
though  I always  gave  you  credit  for  a pretty  large  share.  Do 
you  think  J.  :7ould  ruin  my  house,  which  lodges  people  of  the  first 
rank  and  character,  by  admitting  you  into  it  ? you,  who,  it  is 
well  known,  obtained  Lady  Greystock’s  protection  from  charity, 
and  lost  it  through  misconduct.  Poor  lady — I had  the  whole 
story  from  her  own  mouth.  She  suffered  well  from  having  any- 
thing to  say  to  you.  I always  guessed  how  it  would  be.  Not- 
withstanding your  demure  look,  I saw  well  enough  how  you 
would  turn  out.  I assure  you,  to  use  your  own  words,  if  I could 
accommodate  you  in  my  house,  it  would  not  answer  you  at  all, 
for  there  are  no  convenient  closets  in  it  in  which  a lady  of  your 
disposition  might  now  and  then  want  to  hide  a smart  young 
fellow.  I advise  you,  if  you  have  had  a tiff  with  any  of  your 
friends,  to  make  up  the  difference;  though,  indeed,  if  you  do  not, 
in  such  a place  as  London,  you  can  never  be  at  a loss  for  such 
friends.  Perhaps  you  are  now  beginning  to  repent  of  your  evil 
courses,  and,  if  I took  you  in  my  house,  I should  suffer  as  much 
in  my  pocket,  I suppose,  as  in  my  character.’ 

The  terrified  and  distressed  look  with  which  Amanda  listened 
to  this  speech,  would  have  stopped  Mrs.  Hansard  in  the  middle  of 
it,  had  she  possessed  a spark  of  humanity,  even  if  she  believed 
her  (which  was  not  the  case)  guilty.  But  lost  to  the  noble,  the 
gentle  feelings  of  humanity,  she  exulted  in  the  triumph  of  malice, 
and  rejoiced  to  have  an  opportunity  of  piercing  the  panting  heart 
of  helpless  innocence  with  the  sharp  darts  of  insult  and  unmerited 
reproach.  Amid  the  various  shocks  Amanda  had  experienced 
in  the  short  but  eventful  course  of  her  life,  one  greater  than  the 
present  she  had  never  felt.  Petrified  by  Mrs.  Hansard's  words,  it 
was  some  time  ere  she  had  power  to  speak.  ‘ Gracious  Heaven  1 ’ 
exclaimed  she,  at  last,  looking  up  to  that  Heaven  she  addressed, 
and  which  she  now  considered  her  only  refuge  from  evil,  ‘ to  what 
trials  am  I continually  exposed!  Persecuted,  insulted,  shocked! 
Oil!  what  happiness  to  lay  my  feeble  frame,  my  woe-struck 
Heart,  within  that  low  asylum  where  malice  could  no  more 
annoy,  deceit  no  more  betray  me!  I am  happy,’  she  continued, 
starting  up,  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Hansard,  ‘that  the  accommoda- 
tion I desired  in  this  house  you  refused  me,  for  I am  now  well 
convinced,  from  the  knowledge  of  your  disposition,  that  the  secu- 
rity my  situation  requires  I should  not  have  found  within  it 


THE  children  of  the  ABBEY. 


iZH 

She  hastily  quitted  the  room;  but  on  entering*  the  hall  her  spirits 
entirely  forsook  her,  at  the  dreadful  idea  of  having  no  home  to  go 
to.  Overcome  with  horror,  she  sunk  in  a flood  of  tears  upon  one 
of  the  liall  chairs.  A maid,  who  had  probably  been  listening  to 
her  mistress’s  conversation,  now  came  from  a front  parlor,  and  as 
Mrs.  Hansard  had  shut  the  door  after  Amanda,  addressed  her 
without  fear  of  being  overheard.  ‘ Bless  me,  miss,’  said  she,  ‘are 
you  crying  ? Why,  Lord ! surely  you  would  not  mind  what  old 
Blouzy  in  the  parlor  says  V I promise  you,  if  we  minded  her,  we 
should  have  red  eyes  here  every  day  in  the  week.  Do,  pray,  miss, 
tell  me  if  I can  be  of  any  service  to  you?  ’ 

Amanda,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  thanked  her,  and  said 
in  a few  minutes  she  should  be  better  able  to  speak.  To  seek 
lodgings  at  this  late  hour  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  except  she 
wished  to  run  into  the  very  dangers  she  had  wanted  to  avoid,  and 
Mrs.  Connel’s  house  returned  to  her  recollection,  as  the  impossi- 
bility of  procuring  a refuge  in  any  other  was  confirmed  in  her 
mind.  She  began  to  think  it  could  not  be  so  dangerous  as  her 
fears  in  the  morning  had  represented  it  to  be.  Ere  this  she 
thought  Belgrave  (for  since  the  delivery  of  the  letter  there  had 
been  time  enough  for  such  a proceeding)  might  be  banished  from 
it;  if  not,  she  had  a chance  of  concealing  herself,  and,  even  if 
discovered,  she  believed  Mrs.  Connel  would  protect  her  from  his 
open  insults,  while  she  trusted  her  own  precautions  would,  under 
Heaven,  defeat  his  secret  schemes,  should  he  again  contrive  any. 
She  therefore  resolved,  or  rather  necessity  compelled  her — for 
could  she  have  avoided  it  she  would  not  have  done  so— to  return 
to  Mrs.  Connel’s;  she  accordingly  requested  the  maid  to  procure 
her  a carriage,  and  rewarded  her  for  her  trouble.  As  she  was 
returning  to  Mrs.  Connel’s,  she  endeavored  to  calm  her  spirits, 
and  quell  her  apprehensions.  When  the  carriage  stopped,  and 
the  maid  appeared,  she  could  scarcely  prevent  herself  ere  she 
alighted  from  inquiring  whether  anyone  but  the  family  was 
within;  conscious,  however,  that  such  a question  might  create 
suspicions,  and  that  suspicions  would  naturally  excite  inquiries, 
she  checked  herself,  and  re-entered,  though  with  trembling  limbs, 
that  house  from  whence  in  the  morning  she  had  fled  with  such 
terror. 

CHAPTER  LII. 

Why,  thou  poor  mourner,  in  what  baleful  comer 
Hast  thou  been  talking  with  that  witch,  the  night  ? 

On  what  cold  stone  hast  thou  been  stretched  along, 

Gathering  the  grumbling  winds  about  thy  head, 

To  mix  with  theirs  the  accents  of  thy  woes  ?— Otway. 

Amanda  had  not  reached  the  parlor  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Connel  came  from  it.  ‘Oh!  oh!  miss,’ cried  she,  ‘sa 


440 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


you  are  returned.  I protest  I was  beginning  to  think  you  had 
stolen  a march  upon  us.’  There  was  a rude  bluntness  in  this 
speech  which  confounded  Amanda ; and  her  mind  misgave  her 
that  all  was  not  right.  ‘ Come,’ continued  Mrs,  Connel,  ‘come 
in,  miss,  I assure  you  I have  been  very  impatient  for  your  re- 
turn.’ Amanda’s  fears  increased.  She  followed  Mrs.  Connel  in 
silence  into  the  parlor,  where  she  beheld  an  elderly  woman,  of  a 
pleasing  but  emaciated  appearance,  who  seemed  in  great  agitation 
and  distress.  How  she  could  possibly  have  anything  to  say  to 
this  woman,  she  could  not  conjecture,  and  yet  an  idea  that  she 
had,  instantly  darted  into  her  mind;  she  sat  down,  trembling  in 
every  limb,  and  waited  with  impatience  for  an  explanation  of 
this  scene.  After  a general  silence  of  a few  minutes,  the  stranger, 
looking  at  Amanda,  [said,  ‘My  daughter,  madam,  has  informed 
me  we  are  indebted  to  your  bounty ; I am  therefore  happy  at  an 
opportunity  of  discharging  the  debt.’  These  words  announced 
Mrs.  Rushbrook,  but  Amanda  was  confounded  at  her  manner; 
its  coolness  and  formality  were  more  expressive  of  dislike  and 
severity  than  of  gentleness  or  gratitude.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  rose 
as  she  spoke,  and  offered  a note  to  her.  Speechless  from  astonish- 
ment, Amanda  had  not  power  either  to  decline  or  accept  it,  and 
it  was  laid  on  a table  before  her. 

* Allow  me,  madam,’  said  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  as  she '"resumed 
her  seat,  ‘ to  ask  if  your  real  name  is  Donald  ? ’ Amanda’s  pre- 
sentiment of  underhand  doings  was  now  verified ; it  was  evident 
to  her  that  their  author  was  Belgrave,  and  that  he  had  been  too 
successful  in  contriving  them. 

Amanda  now  appeared  to  have  reached  the  crisis  of  her  fate. 
In  all  the  various  trials  she  had  hitherto  experienced,  she  had 
still  some  stay,  some  hope,  to  support  her  weakness,  and  soothe 
her  sorrows.  When  groaning  under  the  injuries  her  character 
sustained  by  the  success  of  an  execrable  plot,  she  had  the  consola- 
tion to  think  an  idolizing  father  would  shelter  her  from  further 
insult.  When  deprived  of  that  father,  tender  friends  stepped 
forward,  who  mingled  tears  of  sympathy  with  hers,  and  poured 
the  balm  of  pity  on  her  sorrowing  heart.  When  tom  from  the 
beloved  object  enshrined  within  that  heart,  while  her  sick  soul 
languished  under  the  heavy  burden  of  existence,  again  did  the 
voice  of  friendship  penetrate  its  gloom,  and,  though  it  could  not 
remove,  alleviated  its  sufferings.  Now  helpless,  unprotected, 
she  saw  a dreadful  storm  ready  to  burst  over  her  devoted  head, 
without  one  hope  to  cheer,  one  stretched-out  arm  to  shield  her 
from  its  violence.  Surrounded  by  strangers  prejudiced  against 
her,  she  could  not  think  that  her  plain,  unvarnished  tale  would 
gain  their  credence,  or  prevail  on  them  to  protect  her  from  the 
wretch  whose  machinations  had  ruined  her  in  their  estimation. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


441 


The  horrors  of  her  situation  all  at  once  assailed  her  mind,  over^ 
powered  its  faculties,  a kind  of  mental  sickness  seized  her,  she 
leaned  her  throbbing*  head  upon  her  hand,  and  a deep  groan 
burst  from  her  agonizing  heart. 

‘ You  see,’  said  Mrs.  Connel,  after  a long  silence,  ‘ she  cannot 
brave  this  discovery.’ 

Amanda  raised  her  bead  at  these  words ; she  had  grown  a little 
more  composed.  ‘ The  Being  in  whom  I trust,’  she  said  to  her- 
self, ‘and  whom  I never  wilfully  offended,  will  still,  I doubt 
not,  as  heretofore,  protect  me  from  danger.’  Mrs.  Rushbrook’s 
unanswered  question  still  sounded  in  her  ear.  ‘Allow  me, 
madam,’ she  cried,  turning  to  her,  ‘to  ask  your  reason  for  in- 
quiring whether  my  real  name  is  Donald  ? ’ ‘ Oh,  Lord ! my 

dear ! ’ said  Mrs.  Connel,  addressing  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  ‘ you  need 
not  pester  yourself  or  her  with  any  more  questions  about  the 
matter ; her  question  is  an  answer  in  itself.’  ‘ I am  of  your 
opinion,  indeed,’  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  ‘ and  think  any 
farther  inquiry  needless.’  ‘I  acknowledge,  madam,’  said 
Amanda,  whose  ^voice  grew  firmer  from  the  consciousness  of 
never  having  acted  improperly,  ‘ that  my  name  is  not  Donald. 
I must  also  do  myself  the  justice  to  declare  (let  me  be  credited  or 
not)  that  my  real  one  was  not  concealed  from  any  motive  which 
could  deserve  reproach  or  censure.  My  situation  is  peculiarly 
distressing.  My  only  consolation  amid  my  difficulties  is  the 
idea  of  never  having  drawn  them  upon  myself  by  impruden(^e.’ 

do  not  want,  madam,’ replied  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  ‘to  inquire 
into  your  situation ; you  have  been  candid  in  one  instance,  I 
hope  you  will  be  equally  so  in  another.  Pray,  madam,’  handing 
to  Amanda  the  letter  she  had  written  to  Rushbrook,  ‘ is  this  your 
writing?’  ‘Yes,  madam,’  answered  Amanda,  whose  pride  was 
roused  by  the  contempt  she  met,  ‘ it  is  my  writing.’  ‘ And  pray,' 
said  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  looking  steadfastly  at  her,  while  her  voice 
grew  more  severe,  ‘ what  was  your  motive  for  writing  this  letter  ? ’ 

‘ I think,  madam,’ cried  Amanda,  ‘the  letter  explains  that.’  ‘A 
pretty  explanation,  truly  ! ’ exclaimed  Mrs.  Connel ; ‘ and  so  you 
will  try  to  vilify  the  poor  gentleman’s  character  ; but,  miss,  we 
have  had  an  explanation  you  little  dream  of ; ay,  we  found  you 
out,  notwithstanding  your  slyness  in  writing,  like  one  of  the 
madams  in  a novel,  a bit  of  a letter  without  ever  a name  to  it. 
Mr.  Sipthorpe  knew  directly  who  it  came  from.  Ah!  poor 
gentleman,  he  allowed  you  wit  enough ; a pity  there  is  not  more 
goodness  with  it;  he  knows  you  very  well  to  his  cost.’  ‘Yes,’ 
said  Amanda,  ‘ he  knows  I am  a being  whose  happiness  he  dis- 
turbed, but  whose  innocence  he  never  triumphed  over.  He  knows 
that,  like  an  evil  genius,  he  has  pursued  my  wandering  footsteps, 
heaping  sorrow  upon  sorrow  on  me  by  his  machinations;  but  hi^: 


442 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


also  knows,  when  encompassed  with  those  sorrows,  perplexed 
with  those  machinations,  I rose  superior  to  them  all,  and  with 
uniform  contempt  and  abhorrence  rejected  his  offers.’  ‘Depend 
upon  it,’ cried  Mrs.  Connel,  ‘she  has  been  an  actress.’  ‘ Yes^ 
madam,’  said  Amanda,  whose  struggling  voice  confessed  the 
anguish  of  her  soul,  ‘ upon  a stage  where  I have  seen  a sad  variety 
of  scenes.’  ‘Come,  come,’  exclaimed  Mrs.  Connel,  ‘ confess  all 
about  yourself  and  Sipthorpe;  full  confession  will  entitle  you  to 
pardon.’  ‘ It  behooves  me,  indeed,’  said  Amanda,  ‘ to  be  explicit; 
my  character  requires  it,  and  my  wish,’  she  continued,  turning 
to  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  ‘ to  save  you  from  a fatal  blow  demands  it.^ 
She  then  proceeded  to  relate  everything  she  knew  concerning 
Belgrave;  but  she  had  the  mortification  to  find  her  short  and 
simple  story  received  with  every  mark  of  incredulity.  ‘ Beware,, 
madam,’  said  she  to  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  ‘of  this  infatuation;  I ad- 
jure you  beware  of  the  consequences  of  it.  Oh!  doom  not  your 
innocent,  your  reluctant  Emily  to  destruction;  draw  not  upon 
your  own  head  by  such  a deed  horrible  and  excruciating  anguish. 
Why  does  not  Mr.  Sipthorpe,  if  I must  call  him  so,  appear,  and 
in  my  presence  support  his  allegations?  ’ ‘ I asked  him  to  do  so, 

replied  Mrs.  Rushbrook  ; ‘ but  he  has  feeling,  and  he  wished  not 
to  see  your  distress,  however  merited  it  might  be.’  ‘ No,  madam, ^ 
cried  Amanda,  ‘ he  refused,  because  he  knew  that  without  shrink- 
ing he  could  not  behold  the  innocent  he  has  so  abused ; because 
he  knew  the  conscious  coloring  of  his  cheek  would  betray  the 
guilty  feelings  of  his  soul.  Again,  I repeat,  he  is  not  what  he 
appears  to  be.  I refer  you  for  the  truth  of  my  words  to  Sir 
Charles  Bingley ; I feel  for  you,  though  you  have  not  felt  for  me. 
I know,  from  false  representations,  you  think  me  a poor  mis- 
guided creature;  but  was  I even  so,  my  too  evident  anguislt 
might  surely  have  excited  pity.  Pardon  me,  madam,  if  I say 
your  conduct  to  me  has  been  most  unkind.  The  gentle  virtues 
are  surely  those  best  fitting  a female  breast.  She  that  shows 
leniency  to  a fallen  fellow-creature,  fulfills  the  Divine  precept. 
The  tear  she  sheds  over  her  frailties  is  consecrated  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  and  her  compassion  draws  a blessing  on  her  own  head.. 
Oh,  madam!  I once  looked  forward  to  a meeting  with  you,„ 
far,  far  different  from  the  present  one.  I once  flattered  myself 
that  from  the  generous  friendship  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rushbrook  I 
should  derive  support  and  consolation;  but  this,  like  every  other 
hope,  is  disappointed.’  Amanda’s  voice  faltered  at  these  last 
words,  and  tears  again  trickled  down  her  lovely  cheeks.  A faint 
glow  tinged  the  pale  cheek  of  Mrs.  Rushbrook  at  Amanda’s  accu- 
sation of  unkindness.  She  bent  her  eyes  to  the  ground  as  if 
conscious  it  was  merited,  and  it  was  many  minutes  ere  she  could 
again  look  on  the  trembling  creature  before  her.  ‘Perhaps,’' 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


443 


said  she,  at  last,  ‘ I may  have  spoken  too  severely,  but  it  must  be 
allowed  I had  great  provocation.  Friendship  and  gratitude 
could  not  avoid  resenting  such  shocking  charges  as  yours  against 
Sipthorpe,’  ‘ For  my  part,  I wonder  you  spoke  so  mildly  to  her,’ 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Connel;  M protest  in  future  I shall  be  guarded 
who  I admit  into  my  house.  I declare  she  seemed  so  distressed 
at  the  idea  of  going  among  strangers,  that,  sooner  than  let  her 
do  so,  I believe,  if  Miss  Emily  had  not,  I should  have  otfered  her 
part  of  my  bed;  but  this  distress  was  ail  a pretext  to  get  into  the 
house  with  Mr.  Sipthorpe,  that  she  might  try  to  entangle  him  in 
her  snai*es  again.  Well,  I am  determined  she  shall  not  stay  an- 
other night  under  my  roof.  Ay,  you  may  stare  as  you  please, 
miss,  but  you  shall  march  directly.  You  are  not  so  ignorant 
about  London,  I dare  say,  as  you  pretend  to  be.’ 

Mrs,  Connel  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  approached  her  with  a look 
which  seemed  to  say  she  would  put  her  threat  into  execution.  It 
was  Amanda’s  intention  to  quit  the  house  the  next  morning,  but 
to  be  turned  from  it  at  such  an  hour,  a wanderer  in  the  street — 
the  idea  was  replete  with  horror!  She  started  up,  and  retreating 
a few  paces,  looked  at  Mrs.  Connel  with  a kind  of  melancholy 
wildness,  ‘ Yes,’ repeated  Mrs.  Connel,  ‘I  say  you  shall  march 
directly,’  The  wretched  Amanda’s  head  grew  giddy,  her  sight 
failed,  her  limbs  refused  to  support  her,  and  she  would  have 
fallen  to  the  ground  had  not  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  who  perceived  her 
situation,  timely  caught  her.  She  was  replaced  in  a chair,  and 
w^ater  sprinkled  on  her  face.  ‘ Be  composed,  my  dear,’  said  Mrs. 
Rushbrook,  whose  softened  voice  proclaimed  the  return  of  her 
compassion,  ‘you  shall  not  leave  this  house  to-night,  I promise, 
in  the  name  of  Mrs.  Connel.  She  is  a good-natured  woman,  and 
would  not  aggravate  your  distress.’  ‘ Ay,  Lord  knows,  good- 
nature is  my  foible,’  exclaimed  Mrs.  Connel.  ‘So,  miss,  as  Mrs. 
Rushbrook  has  promised,  you  may  stay  here  to-night.’  Amanda, 
opening  her  languid  eyes,  and  raising  her  head  from  Mrs.  Rush- 
brook’s  bosom,  said  in  a low,  tremulous  voice,  ‘ To-morrow, 
madam,  I shall  depart.  Oh!  would  to  Heaven,’  cried  she,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  together,  and  bursting  into  an  agony  of  tears,  ‘ be- 
fore to-morrow  I could  be  rid  of  the  heavy  burden  that  oppresses 
me ! ’ ‘ Well,  we  have  had  wailing  and  weeping  enough  to-night,’ 

said  Mrs.  Connel,  ‘ so,  miss,  you  may  take  one  of  the  candles  off 
the  table,  and  go  to  your  chamber  if  you  choose.’ 

Amanda  did  not  require  to  have  this  permission  repeated.  She 
arose,  and  taking  the  light,  left  the  parlor.  With  feeble  steps  she 
ascended  to  the  little  chamber;  but  here  all  was  dark  and  solitary, 
no  cheerful  fire  sent  forth  an  animating  blaze;  no  gentle  Emily, 
like  the  mild  genius  of  benevolence,  appeared  to  offer  with  un- 
dissembled kindness  her  little  attentions.  Forsaken,  faint,  the 


444 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


pale  child  of  misery  laid  down  the  candle,  and  seating  herself  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  gave  way  to  deep  and  agonizing  sorrow. 

‘Was  I ever,’  she  asked  herself,  ‘blessed  with  friends  who 
valued  my  existence  as  their  own,  who  called  me  the  beloved  of 
their  hearts?  Oh,  yes!’  she  groaned,  ‘once  such  friends  were 
mine,  and  the  sad  remembrance  of  them  aggravates  my  present 
misery.  Oh ! happy  is  our  ignorance  of  futurity.  Oh,  my  father ! 
had  you  been  permitted  to  read  the  awful  volume  of  fate,  the 
page  marked  with  your  Amanda’s  destiny  w^ould  have  rendered 
your  existence  miserable,  and  made  you  wish  a thousand  times; 
for  the  termination  of  hers. 

‘O  Oscar!  from  another  hand  than  mine  must  you  receive 
the  deed  which  shall  entitle  you  to  independence.  My  trials  sink 
me  to  the  grave  ; to  that  grave  where,  but  for  the  sweet  hope  of 
again  seeing  you,  I should  long  since  have  wished  myself.’  The 
chamber  door  opened.  She  turned  her  eyes  to  it  in  expectation 
of  seeing  Emily,  but  was  disappointed  on  perceiving  only  the  maid 
of  the  house.  ‘ Oh,  dear  ma’am !’  cried  she,  going  up  to  Amanda, 

‘ I declare  it  quite  grieves  me  to  see  you  in  such  a situation.  Poor 
Miss  Emily  is  just  in  as  bad  a plight.  Well,  it  is  no  matter,  but 
I think  both  the  old  ladies  will  be  punished  for  plaguing  you  in 
this  manner.  Madam  Bushbrook  will  be  sorry  enough,  when, 
after  giving  her  daughter  to  Mr.  Sipthorpe,  she  finds  he  is  not 
w^hat  he  seems  to  be.’  Amanda  shrunk  with  horror  from  the  idea 
of  Emily’s  destruction,  and,  by  a motion  of  her  hand,  signified  to 
the  maid  her  dislike  to  the  subject.  ‘Well,  ma’am,’  she  con- 
tinued, ‘ Miss  Emily,  as  I was  saying,  is  quite  in  as  bad  a plight 
as  yourself.  They  have  clapped  her  into  my  mistress’s  chamber, 
which  she  durst  not  leave  without  running  the  risk  of  bringing 
their  tongues  upon  her.  However,  she  contrived  to  see  me,  and 
sent  you  this  note.’  Amanda  took  it  and  read  as  follows: 

I hope  my  dear  Miss  Donald  will  not  doubt  my  sincerity  when  I declare  that  all  my 
Borrows  are  heightened  by  knowing  I have  been  the  occasion  of  trouble  to  her.  I have 
heard  of  the  unworthy  treatment  she  has  received  in  this  house,  and  her  intention  of 
quitting  it  to-morrow.  Knowing  her  averseness  to  lodge  in  a place  she  is  unacquainted 
with,  I have  been  speaking  to  the  maid  about  her,  and  had  the  satisfaction  to  hear  that, 
through  her  means,  my  dear  Miss  Donald  might  be  safely  accommodated  for  a short 
time ; long  enough,  however,  to  permit  her  lo  look  out  for  an  eligible  situation.  I refer 
her  for  particulars  of  the  conversation  to  the  maid,  whose  fidelity  may  be  relied  on. 
To  think  it  may  be  useful  to  my  dear  Miss  Donald,  affords  me  the  only  pleasure  I am 
now  capable  of  enjoying.  In  her  esteem  may  I ever  retain  the  place  of  a sincere  and 
affectionate  friend.  E-  R- 

‘ And  where  is  the  place  I can  be  lodged  in  ? ’ eagerly  asked 
Amanda.  ‘ Why,  ma’am,’  said  the  maid,  ‘ I have  a sister  who  is 
housemaid  at  a very  grand  place  on  the  Richmond  Road.  All 
the  family  are  now  gone  to  Brighton,  and  she  is  left  alone  in  the 
house,  where  you  would  be  very  welcome  to  take  up  your  resi- 
dence till  you  could  get  one  to  your  mind.  My  sister  is  a sage. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


445 


sober  body,  and  would  do  everything*  in  her  power  to  please  and 
oblige  you,  and  you  would  be  as  snug  and  secure  with  her  as  in  a 
house  of  your  own ; and  poor  Miss  Emily  begged  you  would  go 
to  her,  till  you  could  get  lodgings  wuth  people  whose  characters 
you  know.  And,  indeed,  ma’am,  it  is  my  humble  opinion,  it 
would  be  safe  and  pleasant  for  you  to  do  so ; and,  if  you  consent, 
I will  conduct  you  there  to-morrow  morning ; and  I am  sure, 
ma’am,  I shall  be  happy  if  I have  the  power  of  serving  you.’ 
like  the  Lady  in  “ Comus,  ” Amanda  might  have  said  : 

I take  thy  word, 

And  trust  thy  honest  offered  courtesy  ; 

For  in  a place 

Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure 

I cannot  be,  that  I should  fear  to  change  it  ; 

Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square  my  trial 

To  my  proportioned  strength. 

To  take  refuge,  in  this  manner,  in  anyone’s  house,  was  truly  re- 
pugnant to  the  feelings  of  Amanda;  but  sad  necessity  conquered 
her  scrupulous  delicacy,  and  she  asked  the  maid  at  what  hour  in 
the  morning  she  should  be  ready  for  her. 

‘I  shall  come  to  you,  ma’am,’ answered  she,  ‘as  soon  as  I 
think  there  is  a carriage  on  the  stand,  and  then  we  can  go  together 
to  get  one.  But  I protest,  ma’am,  you  look  sadly.  I wish  you 
would  allow  me  to  assist  in  undressing  you,  for  I am  sure  you 
want  a little  rest.  I dare  say,  for  all  my  mistress  said,  if  you 
choose  it,  I could  get  a little  wine  from  her  to  make  whey  for 
you.  ’ Amanda  refused  this,  but  accepted  her  offer  of  assistance, 
for  she  was  so  overpowered  by  the  scenes  of  the  day  as  to  be  al- 
most unequal  to  any  exertions.  The  maid  retired  after  she  had 
seen  her  to  bed.  Amanda  entreated  her  to  be  punctual  to  an  early 
hour,  and  also  requested  her  to  give  her  most  afiPectionate  love  to 
Miss  Rushbrook,  and  her  sincere  thanks  for  the  kind  solicitude 
she  had  expressed  about  her.  Her  rest  was  now,  as  on  the  pre- 
ceding night,  broken  and  disturbed  by  frightful  visions.  She 
arose  pale,  trembling,  and  unrefreshed.  The  maid  came  to  her 
soon  after  she  was  dressed,  and  she  immediately  accompanied  her 
downstairs,  trembling,  as  she  went,  lest  Belgrave  should  suddenly 
make  his  appearance,  and  either  prevent  her  departure,  or  fol- 
low her  to  her  new  residence.  She  left  the  house,  however,  with- 
out meeting  any  creature,  and  soon  obtained  the  shelter  of  a 
carriage. 

As  they  proceeded,  Amanda  besought  the  maid,  who  seemed 
perfectly  acquainted  with  everything  relative  to  Belgrave,  to  tell 
Miss  Rushbrook  to  believe  her  assertions  against  him  if  she  wished 
to  save  herself  from  destruction.  The  maid  assured  her  she  would, 
and  declared  she  always  suspected  Mr.  Sipthorpe  was  not  as  good 
as  he  should  be.  Amanda  soon  found  herself  at  the  end  of  her 


446 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


iittle  journey.  The  house  was  elegant  and  spacious,  with  a short 
avenue  before  it  planted  with  chestnuts.  The  maid’s  sister  was 
an  elderly  looking  woman,  who  received  Amanda  with  every  ap- 
pearance of  respect,  and  conducted  her  into  a handsome  parlor, 
where  a neat  breakfast  was  laid  out.  ‘ I took  care,  ma’am,’  said 
the  maid,  smiling,  ‘ to  apprise  my  sister  last  night  of  the  honor 
she  was  to  have  this  morning;  and  I am  sure  she  will  do  every- 
thing in  her  power  to  oblige  you.’  ‘I  thank  you  both,’ cried 
Amanda,  with  her  usual  sweetness,  but  while  she  spoke  a strug- 
g'ling  tear  stole  down  her  lovely  cheek  at  the  idea  of  that  forlorn 
situation  which  had  thus  cast  her  upon  the  kindness  of  strangers 
who  were  themselves  the  children  of  poverty  and  dependence.  ‘ I 
hope,  however,  I shall  not  long  be  a trouble  to  either,  as  it  is  my 
intention  immediately  to  look  out  for  a lodging  among  the  cot- 
tages in  this  neighborhood,  till  I can  settle  my  affairs  to  return 
to  my  friends.  In  the  meantime,  I must  insist  on  making  some 
recompense  for  the  attention  I have  received,  and  the  expense  I 
have  put  you  to.’  She  accordingly  forced  a present  upon  each, 
for  both  the  women  appeared  unwilling  to  accept  them,  and  Mrs, 
Deborah,  the  maid’s  sister,  said  it  was  quite  unnecessary  at  present 
to  think  of  leaving  the  house,  as  the  family  would  not  return  to 
it  for  six  weeks.  Amanda,  however,  was  resolved  on  doing  what 
she  had  said,  as  she  could  not  conquer  her  repugnance  to  continue 
in  a stranger’s  house*  Mrs.  Connel’s  maid  departed  in  a few 
minutes.  Of  the  breakfast  prepared  for  her,  Amanda  could  only 
take  some  tea.  Her  head  ached  violently,  and  her  whole  frame 
felt  disordered.  Mrs.  Deborah  seeing  her  dejection,  proposed 
showing‘her  the  house  and  garden,  which  were  very  fine,  to  amuse 
her,  but  Amanda  declined  the  proposal  at  present,  saying  she 
thought  if  she  lay  down  she  should  be  better.  She  was  immedi- 
ately conducted  to  an  elegant  chamber,  where  Mrs.  Deborah  left 
Her,  saying  she  would  prepare  some  little  nice  thing  for  her  dinner, 
which  she  hoped  would  tempt  her  to  eat.  Amanda  now  tried  ta 
. ‘ompose  her  spirits  by  reflecting  she  was  in  a place  of  security ; 
but  tl^ir  agitation  was  not  to  be  subdued  from  the  sleep  into  which 
mere  fatigue  threw  her.  She  was  continually  starting  in  inex- 
pressible terrors.  Mrs.  Deborah  came  up  two  or  three  times  to 
know  how  she  was,  and  at  last  appeared  with  dinner.  She  laid  a 
small  table  by  the  bedside,  and  besought  Amanda  to  rise  and  try 
to  eat.  There  was  a friendliness  in  her  manner  which  recalled  to 
Amanda’s  recollection  her  faithful  nurse  Edwin,  and  she  sighed* 
to  think  that  the  shelter  of  her  humble  cottage  she  could  no  more 
enjoy  (should  such  a shelter  be  required)  from  its  vicinity  to  Tudor 
Hall,  near  which  every  feeling  of  propriety  and  tenderness  must 
forbid  her  residing ; the  sad  remembrance  of  which,  now  reviving 
in  her  mind,  drew  tears  from  her,  aiK^  »*endered  her  unable  to  eat. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


447 


She  thanked  Mrs.  Deborah  for  her  attention,  but,  anxious  to  be 
alone,  said  she  would  no  longer  detain  her;  yet  no  sooner  was  she 
alone  than  she  found  solitude  insupportable.  She  could  not  sleep, 
the  anguish  of  her  mind  was  so  great,  and  arose  with  the  idea  that 
a walk  in  the  garden  might  be  of  use  to  her.  As  she  was  descend- 
ing the  stairs,  she  heard,  notwithstanding  the  door  was  shut,  a 
man’s  voice  from  a front  parlor.  She  started,  for  she  thought  it 
was  a voice  familiar  to  her  ear.  With  a light  foot  and  a throbbing 
heart  she  turned  into  a parlor  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  which  com- 
municated with  the  other.  Here  she  listened,  and  soon  had  her 
fears  confirmed  by  recollecting  the  voice  to  be  that  of  Belgrave’s 
servant,  whom  she  had  often  seen  in  Devonshire.  She  listened 
with  that  kind  of  horror  which  the  trembling  wretch  may  be 
supposed  to  feel  when  about  hearing  a sentence  he  expects  to  be 
dreadful. 

‘Ay,  I assure  you,’  cried  the  man,  ‘ we  are  blown  up  at  Mrs, 
Connel’s,  but  that  is  of  little  consequence  to  us ; the  colonel  thinks 
the  game  now  in  view  better  than  that  he  has  lost,  so  to-night  you 
may  expect  him  in  a chaise  and  four  to  carry  off  your  fair  guest.’ 

‘ I declare,  I am  glad  of  it,  ’ said  Mrs.  Deborah,  ‘ for  I think  she 
will  die  soon.’  ‘Die  soon!’  repeated  he.  ‘Oh,  yes!  indeed, 
great  danger  of  that ' and  he  added  something  else,  which,  be- 

ing delivered  with  a violent  burst  of  laughter,  Amanda  could  not 
hear.  She  thought  she  heard  them  moving  toward  the  door; 
she  instantly  slipped  from  the  parlor,  and,  ascending  the  stairs  in 
breathless  haste,  stopped  outside  the  chamber  door  to  listen.  In 
a few  minutes  she  heard  them  coming  into  the  hall,  and  the 
man  softly  let  out  by  Mrs.  Deborah.  Amanda  now  entered  the 
chamber  and  closed  the  door,  and  knowing  a guilty  conscience  is 
easily  alarmed,  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  lest  Mrs.  Deborah, 
if  she  found  her  up,  should  liave  her  suspicions  awakened.  Her 
desperate  situation  inspired  her  with  strength  and  courage,  an  1 
she  trusted  by  presence  of  mind  to  be  able  to  extricate  herseii 
from  it.  It  was  her  intention,  if  she  effected  her  escape,  to  pro 
ceed  directly  to  London,  though  the  idea  of  entering  it,  without 
a certain  place  to  go  to,  was  shocking  to  her  imagination ; yet  she 
thought  it  a more  secure  place  for  her  than  any  of  the  neighbor-- 
ing  cottages,  which  she  thought  might  be  searched.  Mrs.  Deb- 
orah, as  she  expected,  soon  came  up  to  her.  Amanda  involun- 
tarily  shuddered  at  her  appearance,  but  knowing  her  safety 
depended  on  the  concealment  of  her  feelings,  she  forced  herself  to* 
converse  with  the  treacherous  creature.  She  at  last  arose  from  the 
bed,  declaring  she  had  indulged  her  languor  too  much,  and,  after 
a few  turns  about  the  room,  went  to  the  window,  and  pretended 
to  be  engrossed  in  admiring  the  garden.  ‘ There  is  a great  deal 
of  fruit  in  the  garden,’  said  she,  turning  to  Mrs.  Deborah;  ‘ if  I did 


448 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


not  think  it  encroached  too  much  on  your  kindness,  I should 
ask  for  a nectarine  or  two.’  ‘ Dear  ma’am,’  replied  Mrs.  Deb- 
orah, ‘ you  are  heartily  welcome.  I declare  I should  have  offered 
them  to  you,  only  I thought  you  would  like  a turn  in  the  garden 
and  pull  them  yourself.’  ‘No,’  said  Amanda,  ‘I cannot,  at  pres- 
ent.’ Mrs.  Deborah  went  off,  and  Amanda  watched  at  the  win- 
dow till  she  saw  her  at  the  very  end  of  the  garden;  she  then 
snatched  up  her  hat,  and  tied  it  on  with  a handkerchief,  the  bet- 
ter to  conceal  her  face,  then  hastily  descended  the  stairs,  and 
locked  the  back  door  to  prevent  any  immediate  pursuit.  She  ran 
down  the  avenue,  nor  flagged  in  her  course  till  she  had  got  some 
paces  from  it ; she  was  then  compelled  to  do  so,  as  much  from  weak- 
ness as  from  fear  of  attracting  notice,  if  she  went  on  in  such  a wild 
manner.  She  started  at  the  sound  of  every  carriage,  and  hastily 
averted  her  head  as  they  passed ; but  she  reached  London  without 
any  alarm  but  what  her  own  fears  gave  her.  The  hour  was  now 
late  and  gloomy,  and  warned  Amanda  of  the  necessity  there  was 
for  exertions  to  procure  a lodging.  Some  poor  women  she  saw  re- 
tiring from  their  little  fruit-stand  drew  a shower  of  tears  from  her, 
to  think  her  situation  was  more  wretched  than  theirs,  whom  but 
a few  days  before4she  should  have  considered  as  objects  of  com- 
passion. She  knew  at  such  an  hour  she  would  only  be  received 
into  houses  of  an  inferior  description,  and  looked  for  one  in  which 
she  could  think  there  might  be  a chance  of  gaining  admittance. 
She  at  last  came  to  a small,  mean  looking  house.  ‘ This  humble 
roof,  I think,'  cried  she,  ‘ will  not  disdain  to  shelter  an  unhappy 
wanderer ! ' She  turned  into  the  shop,  where  butter  and  cheese 
were  displayed,  and  where  an  elderly  woman  sat  knitting  behind 
the  counter.  She  arose  immediately,  as  if  from  surprise  and  re- 
spect at  Amanda’s  appearance,  who  in  universal  agitation  leaned 
against  the  door  for  support,  unable  for  some  minutes  to  speak. 
At  last,  in  faltering  accents,  while  over  her  pale  face  a crimson 
blush  was  diffused,  she  said,  ‘ I should  be  glad  to  know  if  you 
have  any  lodgings  to  let? ' 

The  woman  instantly  dropped  into  her  seat,  and  looked  stead- 
fastly at  Amanda.  ‘This  is  a strange  hour,' cried  she,  ‘for  any 
decent  body  to  come  looking  for  lodgings ! ' ‘I  am  as  sensible  of 
that  as  you  can  be,'  said  Amanda,  ‘but  peculiar  circumstances 
have  obliged  me  to  it ; if  you  can  accommodate  me,  I can  assure 
you  you  will  not  have  reason  to  repent  doing  so.'  ‘ Oh ! I do  not 
know  how  that  may  be,' cried  she;  ‘it  is  natural  for  a body  to 
speak  a good  word  for  themselves  ; however,  if  I do  let  you  a 
room,  for  I have  only  one  to  spare,  I shall  expect  to  be  paid  for  it 
beforehand.'  ‘You  shall,  indeed,'  said  Amanda.  ‘Well,  I will 
show  it  you,'  said  she.  She  accordingly  called  a little  girl  to 
watch  the  shop,  and,  taking  a candle,  went  up,  before  Amanda, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


449 


a narrow,  winding  flight  of  stairs,  and  conducted  her  into  a room 
whose  dirty,  miserable  appearance  made  her  involuntarily  shrink 
back,  as  if  from  the  den  of  wretchedness  itself.  She  tried  to  sub« 
due  the  disgust  it  inspired  her  with,  by  reflecting  that,  after  the 
imminent  danger  she  had  escaped,  she  should  be  happy  to  pro- 
cure any  asylum  she  could  consider  safe.  She  also  tried  to  recon- 
cile herself  to  it,  by  reflecting  that  in  the  morning  she  should  quit 
it. 

‘Well,  ma’am,’  said  the  woman,  ‘the  price  of  the  room  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  one  guinea  per  week,  and  if  you  do 
not  like  it,  you  are  very  welcome  not  to  stay.  ’ ‘ I have  no  objec- 

tion to  the  price,’  replied  Amanda;  ‘but  I hope  you  have  quiet 
people  in  the  house.’  ‘I  flatter  myself,  ma’am,’  said  the  woman, 
drawing  up  her  head,  ‘ there  is  never  a house  in  the  parish  can 
boast  a better  name  than  mine.’  ‘ I am  glad  to  hear  it,’  answered 
Amanda ; ‘ and  I hope  you  are  not  oif ended  by  the  inquiry.’  She 
now  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  for  the  purse,  to  give  the  ex- 
pected guinea,  but  the  purse  was  not  there.  She  sat  down  on  the 
side  of  the  bed,  and  searched  the  other,  but  with  as  little  success. 
She  pulled  out  the  contents  of  both,  but  no  purse  was  to  be  found. 
‘Now — now,’  cried  she,  clasping  her  hands  together,  in  an  agony 
which  precluded  reflection,  ‘now — now,  I am  lost  indeed!  My 
purse  is  stolen,’  she  continued,  ‘and  I cannot  give  you  the  prom- 
ised guinea.’  ‘No,  nor  never  could,  I suppose,’  exclaimed  the 
woman.  ‘Ah!  I suspected  all  along  what  you  were;  and  so 
you  was  glad  my  house  had  a good  name  ? I shall  take  care  it 
does  not  lose  that  name  by  lodging  you.’  ‘I  conjure  you,’  cried 
Amanda,  starting  up,  and  laying  her  hand  on  the  woman’s,  ‘ I 
conjure  you  to  let  me  stay  this  night ; you  will  not— you  shall 
not  lose  by  doing  so.  I have  things  of  value  in  a trunk  in  town, 
for  which  I will  this  instant  give  you  a direction.’  ‘ Your  trunk ! ’ 
replied  the  woman,  in  a scornful  tone.  ‘ Oh,  yes ! you  have  a 
trunk  with  things  of  value  in  it,  as  much  as  you  have  a purse 
in  your  pocket.  A pretty  story,  indeed.  But  I know  too  much 
of  the  ways  of  the  world  to  be  deceived  nowadays — so  march 
directly.’ 

Amanda  again  began  to  entreat,  but  the  woman  interrupted 
her,  and  declared,  if  she  did  not  depart  directly,  she  would  be 
sorry  for  it.  Amanda  instantly  ceased  her  importunities,  and  in 
trembling  silence  followed  her  downstairs.  Oppressed  with 
weakness,  she  involuntarily  hesitated  in  the  shop,  which  the 
woman  perceiving,  she  rudely  seized  her,  and  pushing  her  from 
it,  shut  the  door.  Amanda  could  not  now,  as  in  former  exigen- 
cies, consider  what  was  to  be  done.  Alas!  even  if  capable  of 
reflection,  she  could  have  suggested  no  plan  which  there  was  a 
hope  of  accomplishing.  The  powers  of  her  mind  were  over* 


450 


THE  CHILDREN’  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


whelmed  with  horror  and  anguish.  She  moved  mechanically 
along,  nor  stopped  till,  from  weakness,  she  sunk  upon  the  step  of 
a door,  against  which  she  leaned  her  head  in  a kind  of  lethargy ; 
but  from  this  she  was  suddenly  aroused  by  two  men  who  stopped 
before  her.  Death  alone  could  have  conquered  her  terrors  of 
Belgrave.  She  instantly  concluded  these  to  be  him  and  his  man. 
She  started  up,  uttered  a faint  scream,  and  calling  upon  Heaven 
to  defend  her,  was  springing  past  them,  when  her  hand  was  sud- 
denly caught.  She  made  a feeble  but  unsuccessful  effort  to  dis- 
engage it,  and  overcome  by  terror  and  weakness  fell,  though  not 
fainting,  unable  to  support  herself,  upon  the  bOsom  of  him  who 
had  arrested  her  course.  ‘ Gracious  Heaven ! ’ cried  he,  ‘ I have 
heard  that  voice  before.’ 

Amanda  raised  her  head.  ‘Sir  Charles  Bingley!’  she  ex- 
claimed. The  feelings  of  joy,  surprise,  and  shame  that  pervaded 
her  whole  soul,  and  thrilled  through  her  frame,  were,  in  its 
present  weak  state,  too  much  for  it,  and  she  again  sunk  upon  his 
shoulder.  The  joy  of  unexpected  protection — for  protection  she 
was  convinced  she  should  receive  from  Sir  Charles  Bingley — was 
conquered  by  reflecting  on  the  injurious  ideas  her  present  situa- 
tion must  excite  in  his  mind— ideas  she  feared  she  should  never 
be  able  to  remove,  so  strongly  were  appearances  against  tier. 

‘ Gracious  Heaven ! ’ exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  ‘ is  this  Miss  Fitz- 
alan  ? Oh,  this,’  he  cried,  in  a tone  of  deep  dejection,  ‘is  indeed 
a meeting  of  horror!’  A deep  convulsive  sob  from  Amanda 
alone  proclaimed  her  sensibility,  for  she  lay  motionless  in  his 
arms — arms  which  involuntarily  encircled  and  enfolded  her  to  a 
heart  that  throbbed  with  intolerable  anguish  on  her  account. 
His  friend  stood  all  this  time  a spectator  of  the  scene ; the  raillery 
which  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  uttering  at  seeing  Amanda,  as 
he  thought,  so  premeditatedly  fell  into  the  arms  of  his  companion, 
was  stopped  by  the  sudden  exclamation  of  Sir  Charles.  Though 
the  face  of  Amanda  was  concealed,  the  glimmering  of  a lamp 
over  their  heads  gave  him  a view  of  her  fine  form,  and  the  coun- 
tenance of  Sir  Charles,  as  he  bent  over  her,  full  of  sorrow  and 
dismay.  ‘Miss  Fitzalan,’  cried  Sir  Charles,  after  the  silence  of  a 
minute,  ‘ you  are  ill ; allow  me  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
home.’  ‘Home!’  repeated  Amanda,  in  the  slow  and  hollow 
voice  of  despair,  and  raising  her  languid  head,  ‘alas!  I have  no 
home  to  go  to.’ 

Every  surmise  of  horror  which  Sir  Charles  had  formed  from 
seeing  her  in  her  present  situation  was  now  confirmed.  He 
groaned,  he  shuddered,  and  scarcely  able  to  stand,  was  obliged 
to  lean,  with  the  lovely  burden  he  supported,  against  the  rails. 
He  besought  his  friend  either  to  procure  a chair  or  coach  in 
which  he  might  have  her  conveyed  to  a house  where  he  knev? 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


451 


he  could  gain  lier  admittance.  Touched  by  his  distress,  and  the 
powerful  impulse  of  humanity,  his  friend  instantly  went  to 
comply  with  his  request. 

The  silence  of  Amanda  Sir  Charles  imputed  to  shame  and  ill- 
ness, and  grief  and  delicacy  forbade  him  to  notice  it.  His  friend 
returned  in  a few  minutes  with  a coach,  and  Sir  Charles  then 
found  that  Amanda's  silence  did  not  altogether  proceed  from  the 
motives  he  had  ascribed  it  to  ; for  she  had  fainted  on  his  bosom. 
She  was  lifted  into  the  carriage,  and  he  again  received  her  in  his 
arms.  On  the  carriage  stopping,  he  committed  her  to  the  care 
of  his  friend,  while  he  stepped  into  the  house  to  procure  a recep- 
tion. In  a few  minutes  he  returned  with  a maid,  who  assisted 
him  in  carrying  her  upstairs.  But  on  entering  the  drawing 
room  how  great  was  his  amazement,  when  a voice  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, ‘ Oh,  merciful  Powers  ! this  is  Miss  Donald  ! ’ It  was 
indeed  to  Mrs.  Connel’s  house,  and  to  the  care  of  the  Rush  brooks, 
whom  his  bounty  had  released  from  prison,  he  had  brought  her. 
He  had  previously  informed  them  of  the  situation  in  which  he  had 
found  her,  little  suspecting,  at  the  time,  she  was  the  Miss  Donald 
they  mentioned  being  under  such  obligations  to. 

‘It  is  I,  it  is  I,’  cried  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  gazing  on  her  with 
Uftingled  horror  and  anguish,  ‘ it  is  I have  been  the  occasion  of 
her  distress,  and  never  shall  I forgive  myself  for  it.’ 

‘Oh,  my  preserver,  my  friend,  my  benefactress  ! ’ said  Emily, 
clasping  her  in  an  agony  of  tears  to  her  bosom,  ‘ is  it  thus  your 
Emily  beholds  you  ? ’ Amanda  was  laid  upon  a couch,  and  her 
hat  being  removed,  displayed  a face  which,  with  the  paleness  of 
death,  had  all  the  wildness  of  despair — a wildness  that  denoted, 
more  expressively  than  language  could  have  done,  the  conflicts 
her  spirit  had  endured  ; heavy  sighs  announced  her  having 
recovered  from  her  fainting  fit  ; but  her  eyes  still  continued 
closed,  and  her  head,  too  weak  to  be  self-supported,  rested  against 
the  arm  of  the  couch.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  and  her  daughter  hung 
over  her  in  inexpressible  agonies.  If  they  w^ere  thus  affected,  oh  ^ 
how  was  Sir  Charles  Bingley  distressed — oh  ! how  w^as  his  heart, 
which  loved  her  with  the  most  impassioned  tenderness,  agonized/ 
As  he  bent  over  the  couch,  the  big  tear  trickled  down  his  manly 
cheek  and  fell  upon  the  cold,  pale  face  he  contemplated.  He 
softly  asked  himself.  Is  this  Amanda  ? Is  this  she,  whom  but  a 
short  time  ago  I beheld  moving  with  unequaled  elegance,  adorned 
with  unrivaled  beauty,  whom  my  heart  worshiped  as  the  first 
of  women,  and  sought  to  unite  its  destiny  to,  as  the  surest  means 
of  rendering  that  destiny  happy  ? Oh,  what  a change  is  here  ! 
How  feeble  is  that  form  ! how  hollow  is  that  cheek  ! how  heavy 
are  those  eyes,  whose  languid  glance  speaks  incurable  anguish  of 
the  soul  ! O Amanda,  were  the  being  present  who  first  led  you 


452 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


into  error,  what  horror  and  remorse  must  seize  his  soul  at  seeing 
the  consequence  of  that  error  ! ‘ Has  this  unhappy  young 

creature,’  asked  Eush brook,  who  had  approached  the  couch  and 
viewed  her  with  the  truest  pity,  ‘ no  connections  that  could  be 
prevailed  on  to  save  her  ? ’ ‘ None  that  I know  of,”  replied  Sir 

Oharles  ; ‘her  parents  are  both  dead.’  ‘Happy  are  the  parents,’ 
resumed  Eushbrook,  ‘ who,  shrouded  in  the  dust,  cannot  see  the 
misfortunes  of  their  children — the  fall  of  such  a child  as  this  ! ’ 
.glancing  his  tearful  eyes,  as  he  spoke,  on  his  daughters. 

‘And  pray,  sir,’  said  Mrs.  Connel,  who  was  chafing  her  tem- 
ples with  lavender,  ‘ if  she  recovers,  what  is  to  become  of  her  ? ’ 
‘It  shall  be  my  care,’  cried  Sir  Charles,  ‘to  procure  her  an 
asylum.  Yes,  madam,’  he  continued,  looking  at  her  with  an  ex- 
pression of  mingled  tenderness  and  grief,  ‘ he  that  must  forever 
mourn  thy  fate,  will  try  to  mitigate  it  ; but  does  she  not  want 
medical  assistance?’  ‘I  think  not,’  replied  Mrs.  Connel  ; ‘it 
is  want  of  nourishment  and  rest  has  thrown  her  into  her  present 
situation.’  ‘ Want  of  nourishment  and  rest !’  repeated  Sir  Charles. 
‘ Good  Heavens  I ’ continued  he,  in  the  sudden  agony  of  his  soul, 
and  walking  from  the  couch,  ‘ is  it  possible  that  Amanda  was  a 
wanderer  in  the  streets,  without  food,  or  a place  to  lay  her  head 
in  ? Oh,  this  is  dreadful  ! Oh,  my  friends!  ’ he  proceeded,  look- 
ing around  him,  while  his  eyes  beamed  the  divine  compassion 
of  his  soul,  ‘ be  kind,  be  careful  of  this  poor  creature ; but  it  is 
unnecessary  to  exhort  you  to  this,  and  excuse  me  for  having  done 
so.  Yes,  I know  you  will  delight  in  binding  up  a broken  heart, 
and  drying  the  tears  of  a wretched  outcast.  A short  time  ago, 

and  she  appeared ’ he  stopped,  overcome  by  his  emotions,  and 

turned  away^  his  head  to  wipe  away  his  tears.  ‘ A short  time 
ago,’  he  resumed,  ‘ and  she  appeared  all  that  the  heart  of  man 
oould  desire,  all  that  a woman  should  wish  and  ought  to  be. 
Now  she  is  fallen,  indeed — lost  to  herself  and  to  the  world  !’ 
‘No,’  cried  Emily,  with  generous  warmth,  starting  from  the 
side  of  the  couch,  at  which  she  had  been  kneeling,  ‘ I am  con- 
hdent  she  never  was  guilty  of  an  error.’  ‘ I am  inclined, 
indeed,  to  be  of  Emily’s  opinion,’  said  Mrs.  Eushbrook.  ‘I 
think  the  monster  who  spread  such  a snare  for  her  destruction 
traduced  Miss  Donald,  in  order  to  drive  her  from  those  who  would 
protect  her  from  his  schemes.’  ‘Would  to  Heaven  the  truth  of 
your  conjecture  could  be  proved,’  exclaimed  Sir  Charles.  Again 
he  approached  the  couch.  Amanda  remained  in  the  same  at- 
titude, but  seeing  her  eyes  open,  he  took  her  cold  hand,  and  in  a 
soothing  voice  assured  her  she  was  safe  ; but  the  assurance  had 
no  effect  upon  her.  Hers,  like  the  ‘dull,  cold  ear  of  death,’  was 
insensible  of  sound.  A faint  spark  of  life  seemed  only  quivering 
through  her  woe- worn  frame.  ‘ She  is  gone  ! ' cried  Sir  Charles, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


453 


pressing  her  hand  between  his  ; ‘ she  is  gone,  indeed!  Oh,  sweet 
Amanda,  the  mortal  bounds  that  inclose  thy  afflicted  spirit  will 
soon  be  broken  ! ’ ‘ I trust  not,  sir,  ’ exclaimed  Captain  Rush- 
brook.  His  wife  and  daughter  were  unable  to  speak.  ‘ In  my 
opinion  she  had  better  be  removed  to  bed.’ 

Amanda  was,  accordingly,  now  carried  to  a chamber,  and  Sir 
Charles  remained  in  the  drawing  room  till  Mrs.  Rushbrook  had 
returned  to  it.  She  informed  him  Miss  Donald  continued  in  the 
same  state.  He  desired  a physician  might  be  sent  for,  and  departed 
in  inexpressible  dejection. 

CHAPTER  LIII. 

Love,  gratitude,  and  pity  wept  at  once  .—Thomson. 

We  shall  now  account  for  the  incidents  in  the  last  chapter. 
Amanda’s  letter  to  the  Rushbrooks  filled  them  with  surprise  and 
consternation.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  directly  repaired  to  Mrs.  Connel, 
who,  without  hesitation,  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  the  whole 
was  a fabrication,  invented  by  malice  to  ruin  Sipthorpe  in  their 
opinion,  or  else  by  envy  to  prevent  their  enjoying  the  good  for- 
tune which  he  offered  to  their  acceptance.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  was  in- 
clined to  be  of  the  same  opinion.  Her  mind  was  sensibly  affected 
by  the  favors  Sipthorpe  had  conferred  on  her  family,  and,  yield- 
ing to  its  gratitude,  she  resolved  to  be  guided  implicitly  by  her 
friend,  who  advised  her  to  show  the  letter  to  him.  She  con- 
sidered this  the  best  measure  she  could  pursue.  If  innocent, 
he  would  be  pleased  by  the  confidence  reposed  in  his  honor; 
if  guilty,  his  confusion  must  betray  him.  But  Belgrave  was 
guarded  against  detection.  His  servant  had  seen  Amanda  as  she 
was  alighting  from  the  coach  the  evening  she  arrived  in  town. 
He  inquired  from  the  maid  concerning  her,  and  learned  that  she 
was  to  lodge  in  the  house,  and  go  by  her  assumed  name.  These 
circumstances  he  related  to  his  master  the  moment  he  returned 
home,  who  was  transported  at  the  intelligence.  From  her  change 
of  name,  he  supposed  her  not  only  in  deep  distress,  but  removed 
from  the  protection  of  her  friends,  and  he  determined  not  to  lose 
so  favorable  an  opportunity  as  the  present  for  securing  her  in  his 
power.  He  instantly  resolved  to  relinquish  his  designs  on  Emily — 
designs  which  her  beautiful  simplicity  and  destitute  condition 
had  suggested,  and  to  turn  all  his  thoughts  on  Amanda,  who  had 
ever  been  the  first  object  of  his  wishes.  His  pride,  as  Avell  as  love, 
was  interested  in  again  ensnaring  her,  as  he  had  been  deeply  morti- 
fied by  her  so  successfully  baffling  his  former  stratagems ; he  knew 
not  of  the  manner  she  had  left  the  house.  Half  distracted  at  what 
he  supposed  her  escape  from  it,  he  had  followed  her  to  Ireland,, 
and  remained  incognito  near  the  convent,  till  the  appearance  of 


454 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Lord  Mortimer  convinced  him  any  schemes  he  formed  against 
lier  must  prove  abortive-,  but  to  concert  a plan  for  securing  her 
required  some  deliberation.  Ere  he  could  devise  one  he  was 
summoned  to  Mrs.  Connel’s  parlor  to  peruse  the  letter,  and  from 
the  hand  as  well  as  purport,  instantly  knew  Amanda  to  be  its  au- 
thor. With  the  daring  effrontery  of  vice,  he  directly  declared 
she  was  a discarded  mistress  of  his,  who  from  jealousy  had  taken 
this  step,  to  prevent,  if  possible,  his  union.  Reassured  them  her 
real  name  was  not  Donald,  bid  them  tax  her  with  that  deceit,  and 
judge  from  her  confusion  whether  she  was  not  guilty  of  that,  as 
well  as  everything  else  he  alleged  against  her.  His  unembarrassed 
manner  had  the  appearance  of  innocence  to  his  too  credulous  aud- 
itors, prejudiced  as  they  were  already  in  his  favor,  and  in  their 
minds  he  was  ,now  fully  acquitted  of  his  imputed  crimes.  He 
was  now  careless  whether  Amanda  saw  him  or  not  (for  he  had 
before  stolen  into  the  house),  being  well  convinced  nothing  she 
could  allege  against  him  would  be  credited.  When  night  ap- 
proached without  bringing  her,  he  grew  alarmed  lest  he  had  lost 
her  again.  At  last  her  return  relieved  him  from  this  fear.  The 
conversation  which  passed  in  the  parlor  he  heard  through  the 
means  of  his  servant,  who  had  listened  to  it.  The  mention  of 
Amanda’s  removal  in  the  morning  made  him  immediately  con- 
sult his  servant  about  measures  for  securing  her,  and  he,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  maid,  contrived  the  scheme  which  has  been 
already  related,  having  forged  a letter  in  Emily’s  name.  But 
how  inadequate  is  language  to  describe  the  rage  that  took  posses- 
sion of  his  soul,  when,  going  at  the  appointed  hour  to  carry  Aman- 
da off,  he  found  her  already  gone.  He  raved,  cursed,  stamped 
and  accused  the  woman  and  his  servant  of  being  privy  to  her  es- 
cape. In  vain  Mrs.  Deborah  told  him  of  the  trick  she  had  played 
on  her,  and  how  she  had  been  obliged  to  get  into  the  house 
through  the  window.  He  continued  his  accusations,  which  so 
provoked  his  servant,  conscious  of  their  unjustness,  that  he  at 
last  replied  to  them  with  insolence.  This,  in  the  present  state  of 
Belgrave’s  mind,  was  not  to  be  borne,  and  he  immediately  struck 
him  over  the  forehead  with  his  sword,  and  with  a violence  which 
felled  him  to  the  earth.  Scarcely  had  he  obeyed  ere  he  repented 
his  impulse  of  passion,  which  seemed  attended  with  fatal  conse- 
quences, for  the  man  gave  no  symptoms  of  existence.  Consider- 
ation for  his  own  safety  was  more  prevalent  in  his  mind  than 
any  feelings  of  humanity,  and  he  instantly  rushed  from  the 
house,  ere  the  woman  was  sufficiently  recovered  from  her  horror 
and  amazement  to  be  able  to  call  to  the  other  servants,  as  she 
afterward  did,  to  stop  him.  He  fled  to  town,  and  hastened  to  an 
hotel  in  Pall  Mall,  from  whence  he  determined  to  hire  a carriage 
for  Dover,  and  thence  embark  for  the  Continent.  Ascending  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


i55 


stairs  he  met  a man,  of  all  others  he  would  have  wished  to  avoids 
namely,  Sir  Charles  Bingley.  He  started,  but  it  was  too  late  to 
retreat.  He  then  endeavored  to  stake  off  his  embarrassment, 
from  a faint  hope  that  Sir  Charles  had  not  heard  of  his  villainous 
design  upon  Miss  Rushbrook;  but  this  hope  vanished  the  moment 
Sir  Charles  addressed  him,  who  with  coldness  and  contempt  said 
he  would  be  glad  to  speak  to  him  for  a few  minutes.  But  ere  we 
relate  their  conversation,  it  is  necessary  to  relate  a few  particu- 
lars of  the  Rushbrooks. 

Captain  Rushbrook,  from  knowing  more  of  the  deceits  of  man- 
kind than  his  wife,  was  less  credulous.  The  more  he  reflected  on 
the  letter  the  more  he  felt  doubts  obtruding  on  his  mind,  and  he 
resolved  sooner  to  forfeit  the  friendship  of  Sipthorpe  than  permit 
any  further  intercourse  between  him  and  his  daughter  till  those 
doubts  were  removed.  He  sent  his  son  to  Sir  Charles’s  agent,  and 
liad  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  he  was  then  in  town,  and  lodged 
at  an  hotel  in  Pall  Mall.  He  immediately  wrote  to  Sir  Charles, 
and  requested  to  see  him  whenever  he  was  at  leisure;  adding  he 
was  well  convinced  his  benevolence  would  excuse  the  liberty  he 
had  taken,  when  informed  of  the  purpose  for  which  his  visit  was 
requested.  Sir  Charles  was  fortunately  within,  and  directly  at- 
tended little  Rushbrook  to  the  prison.  The  letter  had  filled  him 
with  surprise,  but  that  surprise  gave  way,  the  moment  he  entered 
the  wretched  apartment  of  Rushbrook,  to  the  powerful  emotions 
of  pity.  A scene  more  distressing  he  had  never  seen,  or  could 
not  have  conceived.  He  saw  the  emaciated  form  of  the  soldier, 
for  such  his  dress  announced,  seated  beside  a dying  fire,  his  little 
children  surrounding  him,  whose  faded  countenances  denoted 
their  keen  participation  of  his  grief,  and  the  sad  partner  of  his 
misery  bending  her  eyes  upon  those  children  with  mingled  love 
and  sorrow. 

Rushbrook  was  unable  to  speak  for  a few  minutes  after  his  en- 
trance. When  he  recovered  his  voice,  he  thanked  him  for  the 
kind  attention  he  had  paid  his  request,  briefly  informed  him  of 
the  motives  for  that  request,  and  ended  by  putting  Amanda’s 
letter  into  his  hand.  Sir  Charles  perused  it  with  horror  and 
amazement.  ‘ Gracious  Heaven ! ’ he  exclaimed,  ‘ what  a monster ! 
I know  not  the  lady  who  has  referred  you  to  me,  but  I can  testify 
to  the  truth  of  her  allegations.  I am  shocked  to  think  such  a 
monster  as  Belgrave  exists.’ 

Shocked  at  the  idea  of  the  destruction  she  was  so  near  devoting 
her  daughter  to,  disappointed  in  the  hopes  she  entertained  of 
having  her  family  liberated  from  prison,  and  struck  with  remorse 
for  her  conduct  to  Amanda,  Mrs.  Rushbrook  fell  fainting  to  the 
floor,  overpowered  by  her  painful  emotions.  Sir  Charles  aided  in 
laising  her  from  it,  for  the  trembling  hand  of  Rushbrook  refused 


^56  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

its  assistance.  ^Unhappy  woman he  exclaimed,  ‘the  disap^ 
pointment  of  her  hopes  is  too  much  for  her  feeble  frame.’  Water, 
the  only  restorative  in  the  room,  being  sprinkled  on  her  face,  she 
slowly  revived,  and  the  first  object  she  beheld  was  the  pale  and 
weeping  Emily,  whom  her  father  had  insisted  on  being  brought 
to  the  prison.  ‘ Oh,  my  child,’  she  cried,  clasping  her  to  her 
bosom,  ‘ can  you  forgive  the  mother  who  was  so  near  devoting 
you  to  destruction?  ‘ Oh!  my  children,  for  your  sake,  how  near 
was  I sacrificing  this  dear,  this  precious  girl ! I blush ! I shudder ! 
when  I reflect  on  my  conduct  to  the  unhappy  young  creature, 
who,  like  a guardian  angel,  interposed  between  my  child  and  ruin. 
But  these  dreary  walls,’ she  continued,  bursting  into  an  agony 
of  tears,  ‘ which  now  we  must  never  hope  to  pass,  will  hide  my 
shame  and  sorrows  together ! ’ ‘ Do  not  despair,  my  dear  madam,’ 

said  Sir  Charles,  in  the  soft  accent  of  benevolence,  ‘ nor  do 
you,’  continued  he,  turning  to  Rushbrook,  ‘ deem  me  impertinent, 
in  inquiring  into  those  sorrows.’  His  accent,  his  manner,  were 
so  soothing,  that  these  children  of  misery,  who  had  long  been 
strangers  to  the  voice  of  kindness,  gave  him,  with  tears  and  sighs, 
a short  relation  of  their  sorrows.  He  heard  them  with  deep  at- 
tention,  and,  when  he  departed,  gave  them  such  a smile  as,  we 
may  suppose,  would  beam  from  an  angel,  if  sent  by  Heaven  to 
pour  the  balm  of  comfort  and  mercy  over  the  sorrows  of  a burst- 
ing heart. 

He  returned  early  in  the  morning.  How  bright,  how  animated 
was  his  countenance  ! Oh,  ye  sons  of  riot  and  extravagance  ; ye 
children  of  dissipation  ! never  did  ye  experience  a pleasure  equal 
to  his,  when  he  entered  the  apartment  of  Rushbrook  to  inform 
him  he  was  free  ; when,  in  the  passioned,  yet  faltering  accents  of 
sensibility,  he  communicated  the  joyful  tidings,  and  heard  the 
little  children  repeat  his  words,  while  their  parents  gazed  on  each 
other  with  surprise  and  rapture. 

Rushbrook  at  length  attempted  to  pour  out  the  fullness  of  his 
heart  but  Sir  Charles  stopped  him.  ‘ Blessed  with  a fortune,’ 
cried  he,  ‘ beyond  my  wants,  to  what  nobler  purpose  could  superflu- 
ous wealth  be  devoted,  than  to  the  enlargement  of  a man  who  has 
served  his  country,  and  who  has  a family  which  he  may  bring 
up  to  act  as  he  has  done  ? May  the  restoration  of  liberty  be  pro- 
ductive of  every  happiness  1 Your  prison  gates,  I rejoice  to  repeat, 
are  open.  May  the  friendship  which  commenced  within  these 
walls  be  lasting  as  our  lives  ! ’ To  dwell  longer  on  this  subject 
is  unnecessary.  The  transported  family  were  conveyed  to  Mrs. 
Connel’s,  where  he  had  been  the  preceding  night  to  order  every- 
thing for  their  reception.  He  then  inquired  about  Sipthorpe,  or 
rather  Belgrave,  whom  he  meant  to  upbraid  for  his  cruel  designs 
Ugainst  Miss  Rushbrook  ; but  Belgrave.  as  soon  as  his  plan  was 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


457 


settled  about  Amanda,  had  quitted  Mrs.  Connel’s.  The  joy  of 
the  Rushbrooks  was  greatly  damped  the  next  morning  on  hear- 
ing of  the  secret  departure  of  Amanda.  What  Belgrave  had 
said  against  her  they  never  would  have  credited,  but  for  the 
appearance  of  mystery  which  enveloped  her.  Still,  her  amiable 
attention  to  them  merited  their  truest  gratitude  ; they  wished  to 
have  expressed  that  gratitude  to  her,  and  offer  her  their  services. 
Much  as  appearances  were  against  Amanda,  yet  from  the  very 
moment  Mrs.  Rushbrook  declared  it  her  idea  that  Belgrave  had 
traduced  her  for  the  purpose  of  depriving  her  of  protection,  a 
similar  idea  started  in  Sir  Charles’  mind,  and  he  resolved  to  seek 
Belgrave,  and  never  rest  till  he  had  discovered  whether  there 
was  any  truth  in  his  assertions  against  Amanda.  Their  meeting 
at  the  hotel  was  considered  as  fortunate  as  unexpected  by  him  ; 
yet  could  he  not  disguise  for  a moment  the  contempt  his  char- 
acter inspired  him  with.  He  reproached  him,  as  soon  as  they 
entered  an  apartment,  for  his  base  designs  against  Miss  Rush- 
brook  ; designs  in  every  respect  degrading  to  his  character,  since 
he  knew  the  blow  he  leveled  at  the  peace  of  her  father  could  not, 
from  the  unfortunate  situation  of  that  father,  be  resented.  * You 
are,’  continued  Sir  Charles,  ‘ not  only  the  violator,  but  the  de- 
famer  of  female  innocence.  I am  well  convinced  from  reflection 
on  past  and  present  circumstances,  that  your  allegations  against 
Miss  Fitzalan  were  as  false  as  vile.’  ‘ You  may  doubt  them,  Sir 
Charles,’  replied  Belgrave,  ‘ if  it  is  agreeable  to  you  ; but  yet,  as 
a friend,  I advise  you  not  to  let  everyone  know  you  are  her 
champion.’  ‘ O Belgrave  ! ' cried  Sir  Charles,  ‘ can  you  think, 
without  remorse,  of  having  destroyed  not  only  the  reputation, 
but  the  existence  of  an  amiable  young  creature  ? ’ ‘ The  exist- 
ence ! ’ repeated  Belgrave,  starting,  and  with  a kind  of  horror  in 
his  looks.  ‘ What  do  you  mean  ? ’ ‘I  mean  that  Amanda  Fitz- 
alan, involved  through  your  means  in  a variety  of  wretchedness 
she  was  unable  to  support,  is  now  on  her  death-bed  ! ’ Belgrave 
changed  color,  trembled,  and  in  an  agitated  voice  demanded  an 
explanation  of  Sir  Charles’  words. 

Sir  Charles  saw  his  feelings  were  touched,  and  trusting  they 
would  produce  the  discovery  he  wished,  briefly  gave  him  the 
particulars  he  asked  for. 

Amanda  was  the  only  woman  that  had  ever  really  touclied  the 
heart  of  Belgrave.  His  mind,  filled  with  horror  and  enervated 
with  fear  at  the  idea  of  the  crime  he  had  recently  committed, 
could  make  no  opposition  to  the  grief  he  experienced  on  hearing 
of  her  situation — a grief  heightened  almost  to  distraction,  by  re- 
flecting that  he  was  accessory  to  it.  ‘Dying!’  he  repeated, 
‘ Amanda  Fitzalan  dying  ! but  she  will  be  happy  ! Hers  will 
be  a pure  and  ministering  spirit  in  heaven,  when  mine  lies 


458 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


howling.  The  angels  are  not  purer  in  mind  and  person  than  she 
is  ! ’ ‘ Then  you  are  an  execrable  villain,’  cried  Sir  Charles,  lay- 

ing his  hand  on  his  sword.  ‘ Strike,’  exclaimed  Belgrave,  with 
an  air  of  wildness  ; ‘ death  will  rid  me  of  horrors.  Death  from 
you  will  be  better  than  the  ignominious  one  which  now  stares: 
me  in  the  face  ; for  I have,  oh,  horrible  ! this  night  I have  com- 
mitted murder  ! ’ 

Astonished  and  dismayed.  Sir  Charles  gazed  on  him  with 
earnestness.  ‘ It  is  true ! ’ continued  he,  in  the  same  wild  manner, 

‘ it  is  true ! therefore  strike ! but  against  you  I will  not  raise  my 
hand;  it  were  impious  to  touch  a life  like  yours,  consecrated  to 
the  purposes  of  virtue.  No,  I would  not  deprive  the  wretched  of 
their  friend.’  Sir  Charles,  still  shuddering  at  his  words,  de- 
manded an  explanation  of  them ; and  the  tortured  soul  of  Bel- 
grave,  as  if  happy  to  meet  anyone  it  could  confide  in,  after  a little 
hesitation  divulged  at  once  its  crimes  and  horrors.  ‘ No,  ’ cried 
Sir  Charles,  when  he  had  concluded,  ‘ to  raise  a hand  against  him 
over  whom  the  arm  of  justice  is  uplifted,  were  cruel  as  well  as^ 
cowardly.  Go,  then,  and  may  repentance,  not  punishment,  over- 
take you.’  To  describe  the  raptures  Sir  Charles  experienced  at 
the  acquittal  of  Amanda  is  impossible.  Not  a fond  father,  rejoic- 
ing over  the  restored  fame  of  a darling  child,  could  experience 
more  exquisite  delight.  The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  he  thought 
it  was  possible  he  could  gain  admittance,  he  hastened  to  Mrs.  Con- 
nel’s,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  from  Mrs.  Rushbrook 
that  Amanda  was  then  in  a sweet  sleep,  from  which  the  most 
salutary  consequences  might  be  expected.  With  almost  trem- 
bling impatience  he  communicated  the  transports  of  his  heart,  and 
his  auditors  rejoiced  as  much  at  these  transports  on  Amanda’s  ac- 
count as  on  his.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  and  Emily  had  sat  up  with  her 
the  preceding  night,  which  she  passed  in  a most  restless  manner,, 
without  any  perception  of  surrounding  objects.  Toward  morning 
she  fell  into  a profound  sleep,  which  they  trusted  would  recruit 
her  exhausted  frame.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  then  withdrew  to  her  hus 
band.  It  was  past  noon  ere  Amanda  awoke.  At  first  a pleasing 
languor  was  diffused  through  her  frame,  which  prevented  her 
from  having  an  idea  of  her  situation ; but  gradually  her  recollec- 
tion returned,  and  with  it  anxiety  to  know  where  she  was.  She 
remembered,  too,  the  moment  she  had  met  Sir  Charles,  but  no 
further.  She  gently  opened  the  curtain^  and  beheld — oh ! how 
great  the  pleasure  of  that  moment — Emily  sitting  by  the  bedside^ 
who,  instantly  rising,  kissed  her  cheek  in  a transport  of  affection, 
and  inquired  how  she  did.  Oh!  how  delightful,  how  soothing 
was  that  gentle  voice  to  the  ears  of  Amanda!  The  softest  music 
could  not  have  been  more  grateful.  Her  heart  vibrated  to  it 
with,  an  exquisite  degree  of  pleasure,  and  her  eyes  feasted  ou 


TKE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


45^? 


the  rays  of  benevolence  which  streamed  from  those  of  Emily.  At 
last  in  a faint  voice,  she  said:  ‘ I am  sure  I am  safe,  since  I am 
with  Emily.’ 

Mrs.  Rushbrook  entered  at  that  instant.  Her  delight  at  the  re- 
stored faculties  of  Amanda  was  equal  to  her  daughter’s ; yet  the 
recollection  of  her  own  conduct  made  her  almost  reluctant  to  ap- 
proach her.  At  last,  advancing,  ‘ I blush,  yet  I rejoice— oh ! how 
truly  rejoice — to  behold  you,’  she  exclaimed;  ‘that  I could  be 
tempted  to  harbor  a doubt  against  you  fills  me  with  regret ; and 
the  vindication  of  your  innocence  can  scarcely  yield  you  more 
pleasure  than  it  yields  me.’  ‘The  vindication  of  my  innocence!  ’ 
repeated  Amanda,  raising  her  head  from  the  pillow.  ‘ Oh,  graci- 
ous Heaven!  is  it  then  vindicated?  Tell  me,  I conjure  you,  how, 
and  by  what  means.’ 

Mrs.  Rushbrook  hastened  to  obey  her,  and  related  all  she  had 
heard  from  Sir  Charles.  The  restoration  of  her  fame  seemed  to 
reanimate  the  soul  of  Amanda,  yet  tears  burst  from  her,  and  she 
trembled  with  emotion.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  was  alarmed,  and  en- 
deavored to  compose  her.  ‘ Do  not  be  uneasy,  ’ said  Amanda, 
‘ those  tears  will  never  injure  me.  It  is  long,  it  is  very  long  since 
I have  shed  tears  of  joy ! ’ She  implored  Heaven’s  choicest  bless- 
ings on  Sir  Charles  for  his  generosity  to  her,  his  benevolence  to 
the  Rushbrooks.  Her  heart,  relieved  of  a heavy  burden  of 
anxiety  on  her  own  account,  now  grew  more  anxious  than  ever 
to  learn  something  of  her  poor  Oscar;  and  notwithstanding  Mrs. 
Rushbrook’s  entreaties  to  the  contrary,  who  feared  she  was  ex- 
erting herself  beyond  her  strength,  she  arose  in  the  afternoon  for 
the  purpose  of  going  to  the  drawing  room,  determined,  as  Sir 
Charles’  generous  conduct  merited  her  confidence,  to  relate  to  him 
as  well  as  to  Mrs.  Rushbrook  the  motives  which  had  brought  her 
to  town  ; the  particulars  of  her  life  necessary  to  be  known  ; and 
to  request  their  assistance  in  trying  to  learn  intelligence  of  her 
brother.  Emily  helped  her  to  dress,  and  supported  her  to  the 
drawing  room.  Sir  Charles  had  continued  in  the  house  the  whole 
day,  and  met  her  as  she  entered  with  mingled  love  and  pity  ; 
for  in  her  feeble  form,  her  faded  cheek,  he  witnessed  the  ravages 
of  grief  and  sickness.  His  eyes  more  than  his  tongue  expressed  his 
feelings,  yet  in  the  softest  accent  of  tenderness  did  he  pour  forth 
those  feelings,  while  his  hand  trembled  as  it  pressed  hers  to  his 
bosom.  ‘ My  feelings,  Sir  Charles,  ’ said  she,  ‘ cannot  be  expressed ; 
but  my  gratitude  to  you  will  cease  but  with  my  existence.’ 

Sir  Charles  besought  her  to  be  silent  on  such  a subject.  ‘ He 
was  selfish,’ he  said,  ‘in  everything  he  did  for  her,  for  on  her 
his  happiness  depended.  ’ 

Rushbrook  approached  to  offer  his  congratulations.  He  spoke 
OJL  her  kindness,  but,  like  Sir  Charles,  the  subject  was  painful  to 


460 


THE  CHILDREK  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


her,  and  dropped  at  her  request.  The  idea  of  being  safe,  the  sooth- 
ing attentions  she  experienced,  gave  to  her  mind  a tranquillity  it 
had  long  been  a stranger  to,  and  she  looked  back  on  her  past  dan- 
gers but  to  enjoy  more  fully  her  present  security.  As  she  wit- 
nessed the  happiness  of  the  Bushbrooks,  she  could  scarcely  forbear 
applauding  aloud  the  author  of  that  happiness  ; but  she  judged  of 
his  heart  by  her  own,  and  therefore  checked  herself  by  believing 
he  would  prefer  the  silent  plaudits  of  that  heart  to  any  praise 
whatsoever.  After  tea,  when  only  Sir  Charles,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bushbrook,  and  Emily,  were  present,  she  entered  upon  the  affairs 
she  wished  to  communicate.  They  heard  her  with  deep  attention, 
wonder,  and  pity,  and,  when  she  concluded,  both  Sir  Charles  and 
Bushbrook  declared  their  readiness  to  serve  her.  The  latter,  who 
had  betrayed  strong  emotions  during  her  narrative,  assured  her 
he  doubted  not,  nay,  he*  was  almost  convinced,  he  should  soon  be 
able  to  procure  her  intelligence  of  her  brother. 

This  was  a sweet  assurance  to  the  heart  of  Amanda,  and,  cheered 
by  it,  she  soon  retired  to  bed.  Her  strength  being  exhausted  by 
speaking,  she  sunk  into  a tranquil  slumber,  and  next  morning  she 
arose  for  breakfast.  ‘ Well,’  said  Bushbrook  to  her  as  they  sat  at 
it,  ‘ I told  you  last  night  I should  soon  be  able  to  procure  you  in- 
telligence of  your  brother,  and  I was  not  mistaken.’  ‘O  Heav- 
ens ! ’ cried  Amanda,  in  trembling  emotion,  ‘ have  you  really 
heard  anything  of  him  ? ’ ‘Be  composed,  my  dear  girl,’  said  he, 
taking  her  hand  in  the  most  soothing,  most  effectionate  manner, 

‘I  have  heard  of  him,  but ’ ‘But  what?’  interrupted 

Amanda,  with  increased  emotion.  ‘ Why,  that  he  has  experienced 
some  of  the  trials  of  life.  But  let  the  reflection  that  these  trials 
are  over,  prevent  your  suffering  pain  by  hearing  of  them.  ’ ‘ Oh ! 

tell  me,  I entreat,’  said  Amanda,  ‘where  he  is!  Tell  me,  I con- 
jure you;  shall  I see  him?’  ‘Yes,’  replied  Bushbrook,  ‘you 
shall  see  him,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense.  In  that  dreary 
prison,  from  which  I have  just  been  released,  he  has  languished 
many  months.’  ‘ Oh,  my  brother  1 ’ exclaimed  Amanda,  while  hot 
tears  gushed  from  her  eyes. 

‘I  knew  not,’  continued  Bushbrook,  ‘ from  the  concealment  of 
your  name,  that  he  was  your  brother,  till  last  night.  I then  told 
Sir  Charles,  and  he  is  gone  this  morning  to  him  ; but  you  must 
expect  to  see  him  somewhat  altered.  The  restoration  of  liberty, 
and  the  possession  of  fortune,  will  no  doubt  soon  re-establish  his 
health.  Hark!  I think  I hear  a voice  on  the  stairs.’ 

Amanda  started,  arose,  attempted  to  move,  but  sunk  again  up- 
on her  chair.  The  door  opened,  and  Sir  Charles  entered,  followed 
by  Oscar.  Though  prepared  for  an  alteration  in  his  looks,  she 
was  not  by  any  means  prepared  for  the  alteration  which  struck 
her  the  moment  she  beheld  him.  Pale  and  thin,  even  to  a degree 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


461 


of  emaciation,  he  was  dressed,  or  rather  wrapped,  in  an  old  regi- 
mental greatcoat,  his  fine  hair  wildly  dishevelled.  As  he  ap- 
proached her,  Amanda  rose.  ‘ Amanda,  my  sister ! ’ said  he,  in  a 
faint  voice.  She  tottered  forward,  and  falling  upon  his  bosom, 
gave  way  in  tears  to  the  mingled  joy  and  anguish  of  the  moment. 
Oscar  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  He  gazed  on  her  with  the  fondest 
rapture — yet  a rapture  suddenly  checked,  by  surveying  the  alter- 
ation in  her  appearance,  which  was  as  striking  to  him,  as  his  was 
to  her.  Her  pale  and  woe- worn  countenance,  her  sable  dress,  at 
once  declared  her  sufferings,  and  brought  most  painfully  to  rec- 
ollection the  irreparable  loss  they  had  sustained  since  their  last 
meeting. 

‘ Oh,  my  father ! ’ groaned  Oscar,  unable  to  control  the  strong 
emotions  of  his  mind — ‘ Oh,  my  father!  when  last  we  met  we  were 
blessed  with  your  presence.'  He  clasped  Amanda  closer  to  his 
heart  as  he  spoke,  as  if  doubly  eiideared  to  him  by  her  desolate 
situation. 

‘To  avoid  regretting  him  is  indeed  impossible,’  said  Amanda  ; 
‘ yet,  had  he  lived,  what  tortures  would  have  wrung  his  heart  in 
witnessing  the  unhappiness  of  his  children,  when  he  had  not  the 
power  of  removing  it ! ’ * Come,  ’ cried  Captain  Rushbrook,  whose 

eyes,  like  those  of  every  person  present,  confessed  his  sympathetic 
feelings,  ‘ let  us  not  cloud  present  blessings  by  the  retrospection 
of  past  misfortunes.  In  this  life  we  must  all  expect  to  meet  with 
such  losses  as  you  lament.’  As  soon  as  Oscar  and  Amanda  grew 
composed,  they  were  left  to  themselves,  and  Oscar  then  satisfied 
the  anxious  and  impatient  heart  of  his  sister,  by  informing  her  of 
all  that  had  befallen  him.  He  began  with  his  attachment  for 
Adela,  and  the  disappointment  of  that  attachment  ; but  as  this 
part  of  his  story  is  already  known,  we  shall  pass  it  over  in  silence, 
merely  relate  the  occasion  of  his  quarrel  with  Belgrave. 

CHAPTER  LIV. 

Bnt  thou  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead. 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  should  lament  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary  headed  swain  may  say, 

Oft  have  I seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the^upland  lawn. 

‘I  LEFT  Enniskillen,’  said  Oscar,  ‘in  the  utmost  distress  of 
mind,  for  I left  it  with  the  idea  that  I might  no  more  behold  Adela. 
Yet,  dear  and  precious  as  was  her  sight  to  my  soul,  I rejoiced  she 
had  not  accompanied  the  regiment,  since  to  have  beheld  her  as 
the  wife  of  Belgrave  would  have  been  insupportable.  Had  the 


462 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


disappointment  of  my  passion  been  occasioned  by  its  not  meeting 
a return,  a pride  would  have  assisted  me  to  conquer  it ; but  to 
know  it  was  tenderly  returned,  at  once  cherished  and,  if  possible^ 
increased  it.  The  idea  of  the  happiness  I might  have  attained, 
rendered  me  insensible  of  any  that  I might  still  have  enjoyed.  I 
performed  the  duties  of  my  situation  mechanically,  and  shunned 
society  as  much  as  possible,  u nable  to  bear  the  raillery  of  my  gay 
companions  on  my  melancholy. 

‘ The  summer  you  came  to  Ireland  the  regiment  removed  to 
Bray,  whose  romantic  situation  allowed  me  to  enjoy  many  de- 
lightful and  solitary  rambles.  It  was  there  a man  enlisted,  whose 
manner  and  appearance  were  for  many  days  subjects  of  surprise 
and  conversation  to  us  all.  From  both,  it  was  obvious  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  one  of  the  superior  situations  in  life.  A form 
more  strikingly  elegant  I never  beheld.  The  officers  made  many^ 
attempts  to  try  and  discover  who  he  really  was  ; but  he  evaded 
all  their  inquiries,  yet  with  the  utmost  agitation.  What  rendered 
him,  if  possible,  more  interesting,  was  his  being  accompanied  by 
a young  and  lovely  woman,  who,  like  him,  appeared  sunk  be- 
neath her  original  state ; but  to  their  present  one  both  conformed, 
if  not  with  cheerfulness,  at  least  with  resignation. 

Mary  obtained  work  from  almost  all  the  officers ; Henry  was 
diligent  in  his  duties;  and  both  were  universally  admired  and 
respected.  Often,  in  my  lonely  rambles,  have  I surprised  this  un- 
fortunate pair,  who,  it  was  evident,  like  me,  sought  solitude  for 
the  indulgence  of  sorrow,  weeping  together  as  if  over  the  remem- 
brance of  happier  hours.  Often  have  I beheld  them  gazing  with 
mingled  agony  and  tenderness  on  the  infant  which  Mary  nursed, 
as  if  shuddering  at  the  idea  of  its  destiny. 

‘ The  loveliness  of  Mary  was  too  striking  not  to  attract  the  no- 
tice of  Belgrave ; and  from  her  situation  he  flattered  himself  she 
would  be  an  easy  prey.  He  was,  however,  mistaken.  She  re- 
pulsed his  overtures  with  equal  abhorence  and  indignation.  She 
wished  to  conceal  them  from  her  husband,  but  he  heard  of  them 
through  the  means  of  his  fellow-soldiers,  who  had  several  times 
seen  the  colonel  following  his  wife.  It  was  then  he  really  felt 
the  bitterness  of  a servile  situation.  Of  his  wife  he  had  no  doubt; 
she  had  already  given  him  a convincing  proof  of  constancy,  but 
he  dreaded  the  insults  she  might  receive  from  the  colonel.  The 
united  vigilance  of  both  prevented,  however,  for  some  time,  a 
repetition  of  those  insults.  Exasperated  by  their  vigilance,  the 
colonel  at  last  concerted  one  of  the  most  diabolical  plans  which 
could  have  entered  into  the  heart  of  man.  A party  of  soldiers 
were  ordered  to  the  sea-side  to  watch  there  for  smuggled  goods. 
Henry  was  named  to  be  of  the  party,  but  when  the  soldiers  were 
drawn  out  he  was  not  to  be  found.  Belgrave’s  servant,  the  vilto 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


46S 


agent  of  his  master,  had  infornied  him  that  the  colonel  meant  to 
take  advantage  of  his  absence,  and  visit  his  wife.  He  trembled 
for  her  safety,  resolved  to  run  every  risk,  sooner  than  leave  her 
unguarded,  and  accordingly  absconded  till  the  departure  of  the 
party.  The  consequence  of  this  was  that  on  his  reappearance  he 
was  put  under  an  arrest  for  disobedience  of  orders,  tried  the 
next  day,  and  sentenced  to  be  flogged  on  the  following  one.  The 
very  officers  that  passed  the  sentence  regretted  it,  but  the  strict’ 
ness  of  military  discipline  rendered  it  unavoidable. 

‘ I shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  situation  of  the  unhappy 
young  couple ; they  felt  for  each  other  more  than  for  themselves, 
and  pride  heightened  the  agonies  of  Henry. 

‘ Pale,  weeping,  with  a distracted  air,  Mary  flew  to  my  apart- 
ment, and,  sinking  at  my  feet,  with  uplifted  hands  besought  me 
to  interpose  in  favor  of  her  husband.  I raised  the  poor  mourner 
from  the  ground,  and  assured  her,  yet  with  a sigh,  from  the  fear 
of  proving  unsuccessful,  that  I would  do  all  in  my  power  to  save 
him.  I therefore  hastened  to  the  colonel,  to  ask  for  another  that 
favor  I should  have  disdained  to  desire  for  myself ; but  to  serve 
this  wretched  couple,  I felt  I could  almost  humble  myself  to  the 
earth. 

‘ The  colonel  was  on  the  parade;  and,  as  if  aware  of  my  inten- 
tion, appeared  sedulous  to  avoid  me.  But  I would  not  be  repulsed 
by  this,  and  followed  him,  entreating  his  attention  for  a few 
minutes.  “Dispatch  your  business  then  in  haste,  sir,”  said  he, 
with  an  unusual  haughtiness.  “ I shall  sir, ’’cried  I,  endeavoring 
to  repress  the  indignation  his  manner  excited,  “and  I also  hope 
with  success.”  “ What  is  your  business,  sir?  ” demanded  he.  “ ’Tis 
the  business  of  humanity,”  I replied,  “ and  ’tis  only  for  others  I 
could  ask  a favor.” 

‘ I then  proceeded  to  mention  it.  Rage  and  malice  inflamed 
his  countenance  as  I spoke.  “Never,”  exclaimed  he,  “ shall  the 
wretch  receive  pardon  from  me  ; and  I am  astonished  at  your 
presumption  in  asking  it.”  “ Yet  not  half  so  astonished,”  replied  I, 
“as  I am  at  your  obduracy.  Though,  why  do  I say  so  ? from 
your  past  actions,  I should  not  be  surprised  at  any  act  you  may 
commit.” 

‘ His  passion  grew  almost  to  frenzy  ; he  asked  me  if  I knew 
whom  I was  addressing.  “ Too  well,”  I replied  ; “I  know  I am 
addressing  one  of  the  completest  villains  upon  earth.” 

‘ He  raised  a small  rattan  he  held,  at  these  words,  in  a threaten- 
ing manner.  I could  no  longer  oppose  my  indignation.  I rushed 
upon  him,  wrested  it  from  his  hand,  broke  it  and  flung  it  over 
his  head.  “ Now,”  cried  I,  laying  my  hand  upon  my  sword,  “ I 
am  ready  to  give  you  the  satisfaction  you  may  desire  for  my 
words — words  whose  truth  I will  uphold  with  my  life.”  “No,” 


464 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


said  he,  with  the  coolness  of  deliberate  malice  ; ‘ ‘ 'tis  a far  different 
satisfaction  I shall  expect  to  receive.”  Some  of  the  officers  had  by 
this  time  gathered  round  us,  and  attempted  to  interfere,  but  he  com- 
manded their  silence  in  a haughty  manner,  and  ordered  me  under 
an  immediate  arrest.  My  fate  I then  knew  decided,  but  I resolved 
to  bear  that  fate  with  fortitude,  nor  let  him  triumph  in  every 
respect  over  me.  I was  confined  to  my  room,  and  Henry  the 
next  morning  was  brought  forth  to  receive  his  punishment.  I 
will  not,  my  sister,  pain  your  gentle  heart  by  describing  to  you, 
as  it  was  described  to  me  by  an  officer,  his  parting  from  his  wife. 
Pride,  indignation,  tenderness,  and  pity,  were  struggling  in  his 
heart,  and  visible  in  his  countenance.  He  attempted  to  assume 
composure,  but  when  he  reached  the  destined  spot,  he  could  no 
longer  control  his  feelings.  The  idea  of  being  exposed, ^disgraced, 
was  too  much  for  his  noble  soul.  The  paleness  of  his  face  in- 
creased. He  tottered,  fell  into  the  arms  of  a soldier,  and  expired 
groaning  forth  the  name  of  Mary.  Four  days  after  this  melan- 
choly event  a court-martial  was  held  on  me,  when,  as  I expected, 
I was  broken  for  contempt  to  my  superior  officer.  I retired  to  a 
solitary  inn  near  Bray,  in  a state  of  mind  which  baffies  descrip- 
tion, destitute  of  friends  and  fortune.  I felt  in  that  moment  as  if 
I had  no  business  in  the  world.  I was  followed  to  the  inn  by  a 
young  lieutenant  with  whom  I had  been  on  an  intimate  footing. 
The  grief  he  expressed  at  my  situation  roused  me  from  almost  a 
stupefaction  that  was  stealing  on  me.  The  voice  of  friendship 
will  penetrate  the  deepest  gloom,  and  I felt  my  sorrows  gradually 
allayed  by  it.  He  asked  me,  had  I fixed  on  any  plan  for  myself.  I 
replied  I had  not,  for  it  was  vain  to  fix  on  plans  when  there  were 
no  friends  to  support  them.  He  took  my  hand  and  told  me  I 
was  mistaken.  In  a few  days  he  trusted  to  procure  me  letters  to 
a gentleman  in  London  who  had  considerable  possessions  in  the 
West  Indies,  if  such  a thing  was  agreeable  to  me.  It  was  just 
what  I wished  for,  and  I thanked  him  with  the  sincerest  gratitude. 

‘In  the  evening  I received  a message  from  the  unfortunate 
Mary,  requesting  to  see  me  directly.  The  soldier  who  brought  it 
said  she  was  dying.  I hastened  to  her.  She  was  in  bed,  and 
supported  by  a soldier  s wife.  The  declining  sunbeams  stole  into 
the  apartment,  and  shed  a kind  of  solemn  glory  around  her.  The 
beauty  that  had  caused  her  misfortunes  was  faded,  but  she  looked 
.more  interesting  than  when  adorned  with  that  bloom  of  beauty. 
Sighs  and  tears  impeded  her  words  for  some  minutes  after  I ap- 
proached her.  At  last,  in  a faint  voice  she  said,  ‘ ‘ I sent  for  you, 
sir,  because  I knew  your  goodness,  your  benevolence  would  excuse 
the  liberty.  I knew  you  would  think  that  no  trouble  which  could 
soothe  the  last  sad  moments  of  a wretched  woman.” 

‘ She  then  proceeded  to  inform  me  of  the  motives  which  made 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


465 


her  send — namely,  to  convey  her  infant  to  her  father,  a person  of 
fortune  in  Dublin,  and  to  see  her  remains,  ere  I did  so,  laid  by 
those  of  her  husband.  Her  unfortunate  Henry,  she  added,  had 
been  son  to  a respectable  merchant.  Their  families  were  intimate, 
and  an  attachment  which  commenced  at  an  early  period  between 
them  was  encouraged.  Henry’s  father  experienced  a sudden  re- 
verse of  fortune,  and  hers,  in  consequence  of  it,  forbade  their  ever 
thinking  more  of  each  other  ; but  they  could  not  obey  his  com- 
mands, and  married  clandestinely,  thus  forfeiting  the  favor  of 
all  their  friends,  as  Henry’s  thought  he  wanted  spirit,  and  hers 
deemed  her  deficient  in  respect  to  her  father.  They  were  there- 
fore compelled  by  necessity  to  a state  of  life  infinitely  beneath 
them.  “But  in  my  grave,”  continued  she,  “I  trust  my  father 
will  bury  all  his  resentment,  and  protect  this  little  orphan.’’ 

‘ I promised  a religious  observance  to  her  commands,  and  she 
expired  in  about  an  hour  after  I quitted  her.  Mournful  were  the 
tasks  she  enjoined  me.  I attended  her  remains  to  the  grave,  and 
then  conveyed  her  child  to  Dublin. 

‘ Startled,  amazed,  distressed,  her  father  too  late  regretted  his 
rigor,  and  received  her  infant  to  his  arms  with  fioods  of  repentant 
tears. 

‘I  now  procured  my  recommendatory  letters,  and  sailed  for 
England,  having  first  written  farewell  ones  to  my  father  and  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  in  which  I informed  both  I was  about  quitting  the 
kingdom.  As  soon  as  I had  procured  cheap  lodgings  in  London, 
I repaired  to  the  gentleman  to  whom  I was  recommended  ; but 
conceive  my  consternation  when  I heard  he  was  himself  gone  to 
the  West  Indies.  I turned  into  a coffee-house,  with  an  intention 
of  communicating  this  intelligence  to  my  friend.  While  the 
waiter  was  getting  me  materials  for  writing,  I took  up  a news- 
paper, and  cast  my  eyes  carelessly  over  it.  Oh  ! my  Amanda, 
what  was  the  shock  of  that  moment,  when  I read  my  father’s 
death ; grief  for  him,  anxiety  for  you,  both  assailed  my  heart  too 
powerfully  for  its  feelings.  My  heart  grew  giddy,  my  sight 
failed  me,  and  I fell  back  with  a deep  groan.  When  recovered, 
by  the  assistance  of  some  gentlemen,  I requested  a carriage  might 
be  sent  for,  but  I was  too  weak  to  walk  to  it.  On  returning  to 
my  lodgings,  I was  compelled  to  go  to  bed,  from  which  I never 
rose  for  a fortnight.  During  my  illness  all  the  little  money  I 
had  brought  along  with  me  was  expended,  and  I was  besides  con- 
siderably in  debt  with  the  people  of  the  house  for  procuring  me 
necessaries.  When  able  to  sit  up  they  furnished  their  accounts 
and  I candidly  told  my  inability  to  discharge  them.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  I was  arrested,  and  sufi'ered  to  take  of  my  clothes 
but  a change  or  two  of  linen.  The  horrors  of  what  I imagined 
would  be  a lasting  captivity  were  heightened  by  reflecting  on 


466 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


your  unprotected  situation.  A thousand  times  was  I on  the  point 
of  writing*  to  inquire  into  that  situation,  but  still  checked  myself 
by  reflecting  that,  as  I could  not  aid  you,  I should  only  add  to 
any  griefs  you  might  be  oppressed  with  by  acquainting  you  of 
mine.  The  company  of  Captain  Rushbrook  alleviated  in  some 
degree  the  dreariness  of  my  time.  ’ I knew  I should  sustain  an 
irreparable  loss  in  losing  him,  but  I should  have  detested  myself 
if  any  selfish  motives  had  prevented  my  rejoicing  at  his  enlarge- 
ment. Oh  ! little  did  I think  his  liberation  was  leading  the  way 
to  mine.  Early  this  morning  he  returned,  and  introduced  Sir 
Charles  Bingley  to  me.  Grently,  and  by  degrees,  they  broke  the 
joyful  intelligence  they  had  to  communicate.  With  truth  I can 
aver  that  the  announcement  of  a splendid  fortune  was  not  so 
pleasing  to  my  heart  as  the  mention  of  my  sister’s  safety.  Of 
my  poor  Adela  I know  nothing  since  my  confinement;  but  I 
shudder  to  think  of  what  she  may  have  suffered  from  being  left 
solely  in  the  power  of  such  a man  as  Belgrave,  for  the  good  old 
general  died  soon  after  I left  Enniskillen. 

‘ “ Regret  not  too  bitterly,  my  dear  Oscar,”  said  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
in  one  of  her  letters,  ‘ ‘ the  good  man’s  death  ; rather  rejoice  he 
was  removed  ere  his  last  hours  were  embittered  by  the  knowledge 
of  his  darling  child’s  unhappiness.” 

‘Oh!  my  sister !’ continued  Oscar,  with  a heavy  sigh,  while 
tears  fell  from  him,  and  mingled  with  those  Amanda  was  shed- 
ding, ‘ in  this  world  we  must  have  still  something  to  wish  and 
sigh  for.  ’ 

Oscar  here  concluded  his  narrative  with  such  an  expression  of 
melancholy  as  gave  to  Amanda  the  sad  idea  of  his  passion  for 
Adela  being  incurable.  This  was  indeed  the  case ; neither  reason, 
time,  nor  absence  could  remove  or  lessen  it,  and  the  acquisition 
of  liberty  or  fortune  lost  half  their  value  by  brooding  over  her 
loss. 

When  their  friends  returned  to  the  drawing  room  and  again 
offered  their  congratulations,  Oscar’s  dejection  would  not  per- 
mit him  to  reply  to  them.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rushbrook 
spoke  of  the  happiness  he  might  now  enjoy,  he  listened  to  their 
recapitulation  of  it  as  to  a fulsome  tale,  to  which  his  heart  in 
secret  gave  the  lie.  An  innate  sense  of  piety,  however,  recalled 
him  to  a proper  recollection  of  the  blessings  so  unexpectedly 
declared  to  be  his.  He  accused  himself  of  ingratitude  to  Heaven 
in  yielding  to  murmurs,  after  so  astonishing  a reverse  in  his 
situation.  Perfect  happiness  he  had  been  early  taught — and 
daily  experience  confirmed  the  truth  of  the  remark — was  rarely 
to  be  met  with  ; how  presumptuous  in  him,  therefore,  to  repine 
at  the  common  lot  of  humanity  ; to  be  independent,  to  have  the 
means  of  returning  the  obligations  Sir  Charles  Bingley  had  com 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


467 


ferred  upon  him ; to  be  able  to  comfort  and  provide  for  his  lovely 
and  long-afflicted  sister ; and  to  distribute  relief  among  the  children 
of  indigence,  were  all  blessings  which  would  shortly  be  his — bless- 
ings which  demanded  his  warmest  gratitude,  and  for  which  he 
now  raised  his  heart  with  thankfulness  to  their  divine  Dispenser. 
His  feelings  grew  composed ; a kind  of  soft  and  serene  melan- 
choly stole  over  his  mind.  He  still  thought  of  Adela,  but  not 
with  that  kind  of  distracting  anguish  he  had  so  recently  experi- 
enced ; it  was  with  that  kind  of  tender  regret  which  a soul  of  sen- 
sibility feels  when  reflecting  on  a departed  friend,  and  to  him 
Adela  was  as  much  lost,  as  if  already  shrouded  in  her  native 
clay.  ‘ Yes,  my  love,’  he  said,  as  if  her  gentle  spirit  had  already 
forsaken  its  earthly  mansion,  ‘ in  that  happy  world  we  shall  be 
reunited,  which  only  can  reward  thy  goodness  and  thy  suffer- 
ings.’ 

He  could  now  enter  into  conversation  with  his  friends  about 
the  measures  which  should  be  taken  to  forward  his  pretensions. 
It  was  the’opinion  of  Captain  Rushbrook  and  Sir  Charles,  that  to 
make  known  his  claim  to  the  Marquis  of  Roslin  was  all  that  was 
necessary  ; a claim  which  they  did  not  imagine  he  would  or  could 
dispute,  when  such  proofs  of  its  validity  as  the  testimony  of  Lady 
Dunreath  and  the  will  could  be  produced.  Was  it  disputed,  it 
was  then  time  enough  to  apply  elsewhere  for  justice. 

Sir  Charles  knew  the  marquis  personally,  and  was  also  well  ac- 
quainted in  his  neighborhood,  and  declared  he  would  accompany 
Oscar  to  Scotland.  Oscar  thanked  him  for  his  intention.  The 
support  of  a person  so  well  known  and  universally  esteemed,  he 
was  convinced,  would  essentially  serve  him.  Sir  Charles  said 
regimental  business  required  his  presence  in  Ireland,  which,  how- 
ever, would  occasion  no  great  delay,  as  he  should  have  it  trans- 
acted in  a few  days  ; and,  as  his  regiment  lay  near  Donaghadee, 
they  could  cross  over  to  Port- Patrick,  and  in  a few  hours  after 
reach  the  Marquis  of  Roslin  s castle. 

The  day  after  the  next  he  had  fixed  for  commencing  his  jour- 
ney, and  he  asked  Oscar  if  it  would  be  agreeable  and  convenient 
to  accompany  him  then.  Oscar  instantly  assured  him  it  was  both. 
Amanda’s  heart  fluttered  at  the  idea  of  a journey  to  Ireland.  It 
was  probable,  she  thought,  that  they  would  take  Wales  in  their 
way  ; and  her  soul  seemed  already  on  the  wing  to  accompany 
them  thither,  and  be  left  at  the  cottage  of  nurse  Edwin,  from 
whence  she  could  again  wander  through  the  shades  of  Tudor  Hall, 
and  take  a last,  a sad  farewell  of  them  ; for  she  solemnly  deter- 
mined from  the  moment  she  should  be  apprised  of  Lord  Mortimer’s 
return  to  England  to  visit  them  no  more.  In  such  a farewell  she 
z>elieved  she  should  find  a melancholy  consolation  that  would 
jsoothe  her  spirits.  She  imagined  there  was  no  necessity  for  accom^ 


468 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


panying  her  brother  into  Scotland,  and  except  told  there  was  an 
absolute  one,  she  determined  to  decline  the  journey  if  she  should 
be  asked  to  undertake  it.  To  go  to  the  very  spot  where  she  would 
hear  particulars  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  nuptials,  she  felt  would  be  toe 
much  for  her  fortitude,  and  might  betray  to  her  brother  a secret 
she  had  resolved  carefully  to  conceal  from  him,  as  she  well  knew 
the  pain  he  would  feel  from  knowing  that  the  pangs  of  a hopeless 
attachment  were  entailed  upon  her  life,  and  would  defeat  what' 
ever  flattering  hopes  he  entertained  for  her.  Exclusive  of  the 
above-mentioned  objections,  she  could  not  bear  to  go  to  a place 
where  she  might  perhaps  witness  the  pain  which  Lord  Mortimer 
must  unavoidably  feel  from  having  any  disgrace  befall  a family 
be  was  so  nearly  connected  with.  Oh,  how  her  heart  swelled  at 
the  idea  that  ere  Oscar  reached  Scotland,  the  interest  of  the  Mar- 
quis of  Roslin  and  Lord  Mortimer  would  be  but  one  ! From  her 
apprehensions  of  being  asked  to  undertake  a journey  so  truly  re- 
pugnant to  her  feelings,  she  was  soon  relieved  by  Oscar’s  declaring 
that,  except  she  wished  it,  he  would  not  ask  her  to  take  so  fatigu- 
ing a one,  particularly  as  her  presence  he  could  not  think  at  all 
necessary. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley  assured  him  it  was  not  ; though  in  a low 
voice  he  said  to  her,  it  was  against  his  own  interest  he  spoke. 

She  would  now  have  mentioned  her  wish  of  going  to  Wales,  had 
not  a certain  consciousness  checked  her.  She  feared  her  counte- 
nance would  betray  her  motives  for  such  a wish.  While  she  hesi- 
tated about  mentioning  it.  Sir  Charles  Bingley  told  Captain  Rush- 
brook  that  he  had  applied  to  a friend  of  his  in  power  for  a place 
for  him,  and  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  make  application  at 
the  very  time  there  was  one  of  tolerable  emolument  vacant,  at 

, about  seventy  miles  distance  from  London,  whither  it  would 

be  necessary  he  should  go  as  soon  as  possible.  He  therefore  pro- 
posed that  he  and  Mrs.  Rushbrook  should  begin  preparations  for 
their  journey  the  ensuing  morning,  and  exert  themselves  to  be 
able  to  undertake  it  in  the  course  of  the  week. 

They  were  all  rapture  and  gratitude  at  this  intelligence,  which 
opened  a prospect  of  support  through  their  own  means,  as  the 
bread  of  independence,  however  hardly  earned,  which  here  was 
not  the  case,  must  ever  be  sweet  to  souls  of  sensibility. 

Oscar  looked  with  anxiety  at  his  sister,  on  the  mention  of  the 
Rushbrook’s  removal  from  town,  as  if  to  say,  to  whose  care  then 
can  I intrust  you  ? Mrs.  Rushbrook  interpreted  his  look,  and  in- 
stantly requested  that  Miss  Fitzalan  might  accompany  them,  de- 
claring her  society  would  render  their  felicity  complete.  This  was 
the  moment  for  Amanda  to  speak.  She  took  courage,  and  men- 
tioned her  earnest  wish  of  visiting  her  faithful  nurse,  declaring 
ftUe  could  not  lose  so  favorable  an  opportunity  as  now  offered  fof 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


469 


the  gratification  of  that  wish,  by  accompanying  her  brother  into 
Wales.  Emily  pleaded,  but  Amanda,  though  with  the  utmost 
gratitude  and  tenderness,  as  if  to  soften  her  refusal,  was  steady. 
Oscar  was  pleased  with  his  sister’s  determination,  as  he  trusted  go- 
ing into  what  might  be  called  her  native  air,  joined  to  the  tender 
care  of  nurse  Edwin,  would  recruit  her  health.  Sir  Charles  was 
in  raptures  at  the  idea  of  having  her  company  so  far  on  their  way. 

Everything  relative  to  the  proceedings  of  the  whole  party  was 
arranged  before  dinner,  at  which  Sir  Charles  presided,  giving 
pleasure  to  all  around  him  by  the  ineffable  sweetness  of  his  man- 
ners. He  withdrew  at  an  early  hour  at  night,  and  his  friends 
soon  after  retired  to  their  respective  chambers.  On  entering  the 
breakfast  room  next  morning,  Amanda  found  not  only  her  brother 
and  the  Rushbrooks,  but  Sir  Charles  Bingley  there.  Immediately 
after  breakfast,  he  drew  Oscar  aside,  and  in  the  most  delicate 
terms  insisted  on  being  his  banker  at  present,  to  which  Oscai- 
gratefully  consented.  As  soon  as  this  affair  was  settled,  he  put  a 
note  into  his  sister’s  hands,  to  purchase  whatever  she  should  deem 
necessary;  and  she  went  out  with  the  Rushbrooks,  who,  accord- 
ing to  Sir  Charles’s  directions,  began  preparations  for  their  journey 
this  day.  After  their  return.  Sir  Charles  found  an  opportunity  of 
again  making  an  offer  of  his  hand  to  Amanda. 

The  sincere  friendship  she  had  conceived  for  him  made  her  de- 
termine to  terminate  his  suspense  on  her  account.  ‘Was  I to 
accept  your  generous  proposal,  Sir  Charles,’  said  she,  ‘I  should 
be  unworthy  of  that  esteem  which  it  will  be  my  pride  to  retain 
and  my  pleasure  to  return,  because  beyond  esteem  I cannot  go 
myself.  It  is  due  to  your  friendship,’  cried  she,  after  the  hesita- 
tion of  a moment,  while  a rosy  blush  stole  over  her  lovely  face, 
and  as  quickly  faded  from  it,  ‘ to  declare,  that  ere  I saw  you,  the 
fate  of  my  heart  was  decided.’ 

Sir  Charles  turned  pale.  He  grasped  her  hands  in  a kind  of 
silent  agony  to  his  bosom,  then  exclaimed  : ‘ I will  not.  Miss 
Fitzalan,  after  your  generous  confidence,  tease  you  with  further 
importunity.’ 

CHAPTER  LV. 

I solitary  court 

The  inspiring  breeze. —Thompson. 

The  ensuing  morning,  Oscar,  Amanda,  and  Sir  Charles  began  , 
their  journey.  The  Rushbrooks,  who  regarded  Amanda  as  the 
cause  of  their  present  happiness,  took  leave  of  her  with  a tender 
sorrow  that  deeply  affected  her  heart.  The  journey  to  Wales 
was  pleasant  and  expeditious,  the  weather  being  fine,  and  relays 
9f  horses  being  provided  at  every  stage.  On  the  evening  of  the 
third  day  they  arrived  about  sunset  at  the  village  which  lay  com 


470 


T^E  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


tiguous  to  Edwin’s  abode ; from  whence,  as  soon  as  they  had  tabeji 
some  refreshment,  Amanda  set  off,  attended  by  her  brother,  fof 
the  cottage,  having  ordered  her  luggage  to  be  brought  after  her. 
She  would  not  permit  the  attendance  of  Sir  Charles,  and  almost 
regretted  having  traveled  with  him,  as  she  could  not  help  think' 
ing  his  passion  seemed  increased  by  her  having  done  so.  ‘ How 
dearly,’  cried  he,  as  he  handed  her  downstairs,  ‘ shall  I pay  for  a 
few  short  hours  of  pleasure,  by  the  unceasing  regret  their  remem- 
brance will  entail  upon  me.’ 

Amanda  withdrew  her  hand,  and,  bidding  him  farewell,  hur- 
ried  on.  Oscar  proceeded  no  farther  than  the  lane  which  led  to 
the  cottage  with  his  sister.  He  had  no  time  to  answer  the  in* 
terrogations  which  its  inhabitants  might  deem  themseives  privi-^ 
leged  to  make.  Neither  did  he  ^wish  his  present  situation  to  be 
known  to  any  others  than  those  already  acquainted  with  it, 
Amanda  therefore  meant  to  say  she  had  taken  the  oportunity  ot 
traveling  so  far  with  two  particular  friends  who  were  going  to 
Ireland.  Oscar  promised  to  write  to  her  immediately  from  thence, 
and  from  Scotland,  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  the  marquis.  He  gave 
her  a thousand  charges  concerning  her  health,  and  took  a tender 
farewell.  From  his  too  visible  dejection,  Amanda  rejoiced  she 
had  not  revealed  her  own  sorrows  to  him.  She  trusted  it  would 
be  in  her  power,  by  soothing  attentions,  by  the  thousand  little 
nameless  offices  of  friendship,  to  alleviate  his.  To  pluck  the 
thorn  from  his  heart  which  rankled  within  it  was  beyond  her 
hopes.  In  their  dispositions,  as  well  as  fates,  there  was  too  great  a 
similitude  to  expect  this. 

Amanda  lingered  in  the  walk  as  he  departed.  She  was  now  in 
the  very  spot  that  recalled  a thousand  fond  and  tender  remem- 
brances. It  was  here  she  had  given  a farewell  look  to  Tudor 
Hall ; it  was  here  her  father  had  taken  a last  look  at  the  spire  of 
the  church  where  his  beloved  wife  was  interred ; it  was  here  Lord 
Mortimer  used  so  often  to  meet  her.  Her  soul  sunk  in  the  heaviest 
sadness.  Sighs  burst  from  her  overcharged  heart,  and  with  diffi- 
culty she  prevented  her  tears  from  falling.  All  around  was 
serene  and  beautiful ; but  neither  the  serenity  nor  the  beauty  of 
the  scene  could  she  now  enjoy.  The  plaintive  bleating  of  the 
cattle  that  rambled  about  the  adjacent  hills  only  heightened  her 
melancholy,  and  the  appearance  of  autumn,  which  was  now  far 
advanced,  only  made  her  look  back  to  the  happy  period  when  ad- 
miring its  luxuriance  had  given  her  delight.  The  parting  sun- 
beams yet  glittered  on  the  windows  of  Tudor  Hall.  She  paused 
involuntarily  to  contemplate  it.  Hours  could  she  have  continued 
in  the  same  situation,  had  not  the  idea  that  she  might  be  observed 
from  the  cottage  made  her  at  last  hasten  to  it. 

The  door  lay  open.  She  entered,  and  found  only  the  nurse 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


471 


within,  employed  at  knitting.  Her  astonishment  at  the  appear 
ance  of  Amanda  is  not  to  be  described.  She  started,  screamed, 
surveyed  her  a minute,  as  if  doubting  the  evidence  of  her  eyes, 
then  running  to  her,  flung  her  arms  about  her  neck,  and  clasped 
her  to  her  bosom.  ‘ Gl-ood  gracious!’  cried  she;  ‘well,  to  pe 
sure,  who  ever  would  have  thought  such  a thing  ? Well,  to  pe 
sure,  you  are  as  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May.  Here  we  have 
peen  in  such  a peck  of  troubles  about  you.  Many  and  many  a 
time  has  my  good  man  said,  that  if  he  knew  where  you  were,  he 
^’'muld  go  to  you.’  Amanda  returned  the  embraces  of  her  faithful 
nurse,  and  they  both  sat  down  together. 

‘Ah!  I fear,’  said  the  nurse,  looking  tenderly  at  her  for  a few 
minutes,  ‘ you  have  been  in  a sad  way  since  I last  saw  you. 
The  poor  tear  captain,  alack ! little  did  I think  when  he  took  you 
away  from  us,  I should  never  see  him  more.’  Amanda’s  tears 
could  no  longer  be  suppressed;  they  gushed  in  torrents  from  her, 
and  deep  sobs  spoke  the  bitterness  of  her  feelings.  ‘Ay,’  said 
the  nurse,  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  ‘ gentle 
or  simple,  sooner  or  later,  we  must  all  go  the  same  way;  so,  my 
tear  chilt,  don’t  take  it  so  much  to  heart.  Well  to  pe  sure,  long 
pefore  this  I thought  I should  have  seen  or  heard  of  your  being 
greatly  married ; put  I pelieve  it  is  true  enough,  that  men  are 
like  the  wind — always  changing.  Anyone  that  had  seen  Lord 
Mortimer  after  you  went  away,  would  never  have  thought  he 
could  prove  fickle.  He  was  in  such  grief,  my  very  heart  and 
soul  pitied  him.  To  pe  sure,  if  I had  known  where  you  were,  I 
should  have  told  him.  I comforted  myself,  however,  by  think- 
ing he  would  certainly  find  you  out,  when  Lort  ! instead  of  look- 
ing for  you,  here  he’s  going  to  be  married  to  a great  lady,  with 
such  a long,  hard  name— a Scotch  heiress,  I think  they  call  her. 

g'olt  is  everything  in  these  days.  Well,  all  the  harm  I wish 
him  is,  that  she  may  plague  his  life  out.  ’ 

This  discourse  was  too  painful  to  Amanda.  Her  tears  had  sub- 
sided, and  she  endeavored  to  change  it,  by  asking  after  the 
nurse’s  family.  The  nurse,  in  a hasty  manner,  said  they  were 
well  and  thus  proceeded:  ‘Then  there  is  Parson  Ho wel.  I am 
sure  one  would  have  thought  him  as  steady  as  Penmaenmawr, 
but  no  such  thing.  I am  sure  he  has  changed,  for  he  does  not 
come  to  the  cottage  half  so  often  to  ask  about  you  as  he  used  to 
do.’ 

Amanda,  notwithstanding  her  dejection,  smiled  at  the  nurse’s 
anger  about  the  curate,  and  again  requested  to  hear  particulars 
of  her  family.  The  nurse  no  longer  hesitated  to  comply  with  her 
request.  She  informed  her  they  were  all  well,  and  then  at  a little 
distance  at  the  mill  in  the  valley.  She  also  added  that  Ellen 
was  married  to  her  faithful  Chip;  had  a comfortable  cottage, 


472 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


and  a fine  little  girl  she  was  nursing,  and  to  whom  from  her  love 
to  her  tear  young  laty,  she  would  have  given  the  name  of 
Amanda,  but  that  she  feared  people  would  deem  her  conceited, 
to  give  it  so  fine  a one.  The  nurse  said  she  often  regretted  hav- 
ing left  her  young  lady,  and  that  even  Chip  himself  could  not 
console  her  for  having  done  so.  Tears  again  started  in  Amanda’s 
eyes,  at  hearing  of  the  unabated  attachment  of  her  poor  Ellen. 
She  longed  to  see  and  congratulate  her  on  her  present  happiness. 
The  nurse,  in  her  turn,  inquired  of  all  that  had  befallen  Amanda 
since  their  separation,  and  shed  tears  at  hearing  of  her  dear 
child’s  sufferings  since  that  period.  She  asked  about  Oscar,  and 
was  briefly  informed  that  he  was  well.  The  family  soon  re- 
turned from  the  dance ; and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether 
surprise  or  joy  was  most  predominant  at  seeing  Amanda.  One 
of  the  young  men  ran  over  for  Ellen,  and  returned  in  a few 
minutes  with  her,  followed  by  her  husband,  carrying  his  little 
child.  She  looked  wild  with  fdelight.  She  clasped  Amanda  in 
her  arms,  as  if  she  would  never  let  her  depart  from  them,  and 
wept  in  the  fullness  of  her  heart.  ‘Now,  now,’  cried  she,  ‘I 
shall  be  quite  happy ; but  oh ! why,  my  tear  young  laty,  did  you 
not  come  among  us  before?  you  know  all  in  our  power  we  would 
have  done  to  render  you  happy.’  She  now  recollected  herself, 
and  modestly  retired  to  a little  distance.  She  took  her  child  and 
brought  it  to  Amanda,  who  delighted  her  extremely  by  the  notice 
she  took  of  it  and  Chip.  If  Amanda  had  had  less  cause  for  grief, 
the  attentions  of  these  affectionate  cottagers  would  have  soothed 
her  mind ; but  at  present  nothing  could  diminish  her  dejection. 
Her  luggage  was  by  this  time  arrived.  She  had  brought  pres- 
ents for  all  the  family,  and  now  distributed  [them.  She  tried 
to  converse  about  their  domestic  affairs,  but  found  herself  un- 
equal to  the  efPort,  and  begged  to  be  shown  to  her  chamber. 
The  nurse  would  not  suffer  her  to  retire  till  she  had  tasted  her 
new  cheese  and  Welsh  ale.  When  alone  within  it,  she  found 
fresh  objects  to  remind  her  of  Lord  Mortimer,  and  consequently 
to  augment  her  grief.  Here  lay  the  bookcase  he  had  sent  her. 
She  opened  it  with  trembling  impatience ; but  scarcely  a vol- 
ume did  she  examine  in  which  select  passages  were  not  marked, 
by  his  hand,  for  her  particular  perusal.  Oh ! what  mementoes 
were  those  volumes  of  the  happy  hours  she  had  passed  at  the 
cottage ! The  night  waned  away,  and  still  she  continued  weep- 
ing over  them.  She  could  with  difficulty  bring  herself  to  close 
the  bookcase ; and  when  she  retired  to  rest  her  slumbers  were 
short  and  unrefreshing.  The  next  morning  as  she  sat  at  break- 
fast, assiduously  attended  by  the  nurse  and  her  daughters  (for 
Ellen  had  come  over  earlv  to  inquire  after  her  health),  Howel 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


473 


entered  to  pay  her  a visit.  The  previous  intimation  she  had 
received  of  the  alteration  in  his  sentiments  rendered  his  visit 
more  pleasing  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been  to  her.  His 
pleasure  was  great  at  seeing  her,  but  it  was  not  the  wild  and 
extravagant  delight  of  a lover,  but  the  soft  and  placid  joy  of  a 
friend.  After  his  departure,  which  was  not  soon,  she  accom- 
panied Ellen  to  view  her  cottage  and  was  infinitely  pleased  by 
its  neatness  and  romantic  situation.  It  lay  on  the  side  of  a 
hill  which  commanded  a beautiful  prospect  of  Tudor  Hall. 
Everything  she  beheld  reminded  Amanda  of  Lord  Mortimer, 
even  the  balmy  air  she  breathed,  on  which  his  voice  had  so 
often  floated. 

The  sad  indulgence  of  wandering  through  the  shades  of  Tudor 
Hall,  which  she  had  so  eagerly  desired,  and  fondly  anticipated, 
she  could  not  longer  deny  herself.  The  second  evening  after  her 
arrival  at  the  cottage,  she  turned  her  solitary  steps  to  them ; their 
deep  embowering  glens,  their  solitude,  their  silence,  suited  the 
pensive  turn  of  her  feelings.  Here,  undisturbed  and  unobserved, 
she  could  indulge  the  sorrows  of  her  heart ; and  oh ! how  did  rec- 
ollection augment  those  sorrows  by  retracing  the  happy  hours  she 
had  spent  within  those  shades.  A cold,  a death -like  melancholy 
pervaded  her  feelings,  and  seemed  repelling  the  movements  of  life. 
Her  trembling  limbs  were  unable  to  support  her,  and  she  threw 
hei’self  on  the  ground.  For  some  minutes  she  could  scarcely 
breathe.  Tears  at  length  relieved  her  painful  oppression,  she 
raised  her  languid  head,  she  looked  around,  and  wept  with  in- 
creasing violence  at  beholding  what  might  be  termed  mementoes 
of  former  happiness.  She  repeated  in  soft  and  tremulous  accents 
the  name  of  Mortimer;  but  as  the  beloved  name  vibrated  on  her 
ear,  how  did  she  start  at  recollecting  that  she  was  then  calling  up- 
on the  husband  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  She  felt  a momentary  glow 
upon  her  cheeks.  • She  arose  and  sighed  deeply.  ‘ I will  strive  to 
do  right,’  she  cried ; ‘ I will  try  to  wean  my  soul  from  remembrances 
no  longer  proper  to  be  indulged.’  Yet  still  she  lingered  in  the 
wood.  The  increasing  gloom  of  evening  rendered  it,  if  possible, 
more  pleasing  to  her  feelings,  while  the  breeze  sighed  mournfully 
through  the  trees,  and  the  droning  bat  fluttered  upon  the  air,  up- 
on which  the  wild  music  of  a harp,  from  one  of  the  neighboring 
cottages,  softly  floated. 

Amanda  drew  nearer  to  it.  It  looked  dark  and  melancholy. 
She  sighed — she  involuntarily  exclaimed,  ‘ Oh,  how  soon  will  it 
be  enlivened  by  bridal  pomp  and  festivity ! ’ She  now  recollected 
the  uneasiness  her  long  absence  might  create  at  the  cottage,  and 
as  soon  as  the  idea  occurred,  hastened  to  it.  She  met  Edwin  in 
the  lane,  who  had  been  dispatched  by  his  wife  in  quest  of  her 


474 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


The  good  woman  expressed  her  fears  that  such  late  ramhles  would 
injure  the  health  of  Amanda ; ‘ it  was  a sad  thing,’  she  said,  ‘ to  see 
young  people  giving  way  to  dismal  fancies.  ’ 

Amanda  did  not  condne  her  rambles  entirely  to  Tudor  Hall  ; 
she  visited  all  the  spots  where  she  and  Mortimer  used  to  ramble 
together.  She  went  to  the  humble  spot  where  her  mother  lay  in- 
terred.  Her  feelings  were  now  infinitely  more  painful  than  when 
she  had  first  seen  it.  It  recalled  to  her  mind,  in  the  most  agoniz 
iiig  manner,  all  the  vicissitudes  she  had  experienced  since  that 
period.  It  recalled  to  view  the  calamitous  closure  of  her  father's 
life — the  sorrows,  the  distresses  of  that  life,  and  she  felt  over- 
whelmed with  grief.  Scarcely  could  she  prevent  herself  from  fall- 
ing on  the  grave,  and  giving  way  in  tears  and  lamentations  to 
that  grief.  Deprived  of  the  dearest  connections  of  life,  blasted  in 
hopes  and  expectations — ‘ Oh  ! well  had  it  been  for  me,’  she  cried, 

‘ had  this  spot  at  once  received  the  mother  and  child ; and  yet/ 
she  exclaimed,  after  a minute’s  reflection ; ‘ oh!  what,  my  God,  am 
I,  that  I should  dare  to  murmur  or  repine  at  thy  decrees  ? Oh  ! 
pardon  the  involuntary  expressions  of  a woe- worn  heart,  of  a heart 
that  feels  the  purest  gratitude  for  thy  protection  through  past 
dangers.  Oh!  how  presumptuous,’ she  continued,  ‘to  repine  at 
the  common  lot  of  humanity,  as  the  lot  of  her,  ’ she  continued, 
casting  her  tearful  eyes  upon  the  grave,  where  the  last  flowers  of 
autumn  were  now  withering,  ‘ who  reposes  in  this  earthly  bed  ; 
who,  in  life’s  meridian,  in  beauty’s  prime,  sunk,  the  sad  victim 
of  sorrow,  into  the  arms  of  death ! Oh,  my  parents,  how  calami- 
tous were  your  destinies ! even  your  ashes  were  not  permitted  to 
molder  together,  but  in  a happier  region,  your  kindred  spirits  are 
now  united.  Blessed  spirits,  your  child  will  strive  to  imitate  your 
example ; in  patient  resignation  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  she  will 
endeavor  to  support  life.  She  will  strive  to  live,  though  not  from 
an  idea  of  enjoying  happiness,  but  from  an  humble  hope  of  being 
able  to  dispense  it  to  others.  ’ 

Such  were  the  words  of  Amanda  at  the  grave  of  her  mother 
from  which  she  turned  like  a pale  and  drooping  lily,  surcharged 
with  tears.  At  the  end  of  a week,  she  heard  from  Oscar,  who 
told  her  in  the  course  of  a few  days  he  expected  to  embark  for 
Scotland.  Amanda  had  brought  materials  for  drawing  with  her, 
and  she  felt  a passionate  desire  of  taking  views  of  Tudor  Hall  ; 
views  which,  she  believed,  would  yield  her  a melancholy  pleasure 
when  she  should  be  far  and  forever  distant  from  the  spots  they 
represented. 

This  desire  however,  she  could  not  gratify  without  the  as- 
sistance of  her  nurse,  for  she  meant  to  take  her  views  from  the 
library,  and  she  feared  if  she  went  there  without  apprising  the 
housekeeper  she  should  be  liable  to  interruption.  She,  there" 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


475 


fore,  requested  her  nurse  to  ask  permission  for  her  to  go  there. 
The  nurse  shook  her  head,  as  if  she  suspected  Amanda  had  a 
motive  for  the  request  she  did  not  divulge.  She  was,  however, 
too  anxious  to  gratify  her  dear  child  to  refuse  complying  with  it, 
and  accordingly  lost  no  time  in  asking  the  desired  permission, 
which  Mrs.  Aberg willy  readily  gave,  saying — ‘ Miss  Fitzalan  was 
welcome  to  go  to  the  library  whenever  she  pleased,  and  should 
not  be  interrupted.’ 

Amanda  did  not  delay  availing  herself  of  this  permission,  but 
t was  some  time  after  she  entered  the  library,  ere  she  could  com- 
pose herself  sufficiently  for  the  purpose  which  had  brought  her  to 
to  it.  In  vain  did  nature  appear  from  the  windows,  displaying 
the  most  beautiful  and  romantic  scenery  to  her  view,  as  if  to 
tempt  her  to  take  up  the  pencil.  Her  eyes  were  dimmed  with 
tears  as  she  looked  upon  this  scenery,  and  reflected  that  he  who 
had  once  pointed  out  its  various  beauties  was  lost  to  her  forever. 
By  degrees,  however,  her  feelings  grew  composed,  and  every 
morning  she  repaired  to  the  library,  feeling,  while  engaged  with 
it,  a temporary  alleviation  of  sorrow. 

Three  weeks  passed  in  this  manner,  and  at  the  expiration  of 
that  period  she  received  a letter  from  Oscar.  She  trembled  in 
the  most  violent  agitation  as  she  broke  the  seal,  for  she  saw  by  the 
post-mark  he  wa#  in  Scotland  ; but  how  great  was  her  surprise 
and  joy  at  the  contents  of  this  letter,  which  informed  her  every- 
thing relative  to  the  important  affair  so  lately  in  agitation  was 
settled  in  the  most  amicable  manner  ; that  the  avowal  of  his 
claim  occasioned  not  the  smallest  litigation  ; that  he  was  then  in 
full  possession  of  the  fortune  bequeathed  him  by  the  earl,  and 
had  already  received  the  congratulations  of  the  neighboring 
families  on  his  accession,  or  rather  restoration  to  it.  He  had  not 
time,  he  said,  to  enumerate  the  many  particulars  which  rendered 
the  adjustment  of  affairs  so  easy,  and  hoped  the  pleasing  intelli- 
gence his  letter  communicated  would  atone  for  his  brevity  ; he 
added,  he  was  then  preparing  to  set  off  for  London  with  Sir 
Charles  Bingley,  of  whose  friendship  he  spoke  in  the  highest 
terms,  to  settle  some  affairs  relative  to  his  new  possessions,  and 
particularly  about  the  revival  of  the  Dunreath  title,  which,  not 
from  any  ostentatious  pride,  he  desired  to  obtain,  as  he  was  sure 
she  would  suppose,  but  from  gratitude  and  respect  to  the  wishes 
of  his  grandfather,  who  in  his  will  had  expressed  his  desire  that 
the  honors  of  his  family  should  be  supported  by  his  heir.  When 
everything  was  finally  settled,  he  proceeded  to  say,  he  would 
hasten  on  the  wings  of  love  and  impatience  to  her,  for  in  her 
sweet  society  alone  he  found  any  balm  for  the  sorrows  of  his 
heart,  sorrows  which  could  not  be  eradicated  from  it,  though 
fortune  had  been  so  unexpectedly  propitious  ; and  he  hoped,  he 


476 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


said,  he  should  find  her  then  gay  as  the  birds,  blooming  as  the 
flowerets  of  spring,  and  ready  to  accompany  him  to  the  venerable 
mansion  of  their  ancestors. 

The  joyful  intelligence  this  letter  communicated  she  had  not 
spirits  at  present  to  mention  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  cottage ; the 
pleasure  it  afforded  was  only  damped  by  reflecting  on  what  Lord 
Mortimer  must  feel  from  a discovery  which  could  not  fail  of  cast- 
ing a dark  shade  of  obloquy  upon  his  new  connections.  She  was 
now  doubly  anxious  to  finish  her  landscapes,  from  the  prospect 
there  was  of  her  quitting  Wales  so  soon.  Every  visit  she  now 
paid  the  library  was  paid  with  the  sad  idea  of  its  being  the  last. 
As  she  was  preparing  for  going  there  one  morning,  immediately 
after  breakfast,  the  nurse,  who  had  been  out  some  time  previous 
to  her  rising,  entered  the  room  with  a look  of  breathless  im- 
patience, which  seemed  to  declare  she  had  something  wonderful 
to  communicate.  ‘ Grool  lack-a-taisy,’ cried  she,  as  soon  as  she 
had  recovered  her  breath,  lifting  up  her  head  from  the  back  of 
the  chair  on  which  she  had  thrown  herself,  ‘goot  lack-a-taisy, 
well,  to  pe  sure  there  is  nothing  but  wonderful  things  happening 
in  this  world  ! Here,  old  Dame  Abergwilly  sent  in  such  a hurry 
for  me  this  morning  ; to  pe  sure  I was  surprised,  but  what  was 
that  to  the  surprise  I felt  when  I heard  what  she  had  sent  to  me 
for.’  It  was  now  Amanda’s  turn  to  feel  breathless  impatience. 
‘ Good  Heavens  ! ’ she  exclaimed,  ‘ what  did  she  tell  you  ? ' ‘ Ay, 
I knew,  ’ cried  the  nurse,  * the  commotion  you  would  be  in  when 
I told  you  the  news  ; if  you  were  guessing  from  this  time  till  this 
time  to-morrow  you  would  never  stumble  over  what  it  is. ’ ‘I 
dare  say  I should  not,’ cried  Amanda,  ‘so  do  be  brief.’  ‘Why, 
you  must  know — but  Lort,  my  tear  child,  I am  afraid  you  made 
but  a bad  breakfast,  for  you  lock  very  pale ; inteed  I made  no  great 
one  myself,  for  I was  in  such  a hurry-flurry  with  what  Mrs. 
Abergwilly  told  me,  that  though  she  made  some  nice  green  tea, 
and  we  had  a slim  cake,  I could  scarcely  touch  anything.^ 
‘Well,’  said  Amanda,  tortured  with  anxiety  and  impatience, 
‘ what  did  she  tell  you  ? ’ ‘ Why,  my  tear  child,  down  came  a 

special  messenger  from  London  last  night,  to  let  them  know  that 
Lort  Cherbury  was  tead,  and  that  Lort  Mortimer  had  sold  Tudor 
Hall  ; and  the  steward  is  ordered  to  pay  all  the  servants  off,  and 
to  discharge  them ; and  to  have  everything  in  readiness  against  the 
new  lantlort  comes  down  to  take  possession.  Oh  ! Lort,  there  is 
such  weeping  and  wailing  at  the  Hall  ; the  poor  creatures  who  had 
grown  old  in  service,’  hoped  to  have  finished  their  tays  in  it ; it  is 
not  that  they  are  in  any  fear  or  want — the  young  lort  has  taken 
care  of  that,  for  he  has  settled  something  yearly  upon  them  all — 
but  that  they  are  sorry  to  quit  the  family.  Poor  Mrs.  Abergwilly, 
nothing  can  comfort  the  old  soul ; she  has  neither  chick  nor  child, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


477 


and  she  told  me  she  loved  the  very  chairs  and  tables,  to  which,  to 
pe  sure,  her  hand  has  given  many  a polishing  rub.  She  says  she 
thinks  she  will  come  and  lodge  with  me  ; but  if  she  does,  she  says 
I must  not  put  her  into  a room  from  whence  she  can  have  a view 
of  Tudor  Hall  ; for  she  says  she  will  never  be  able  to  look  at  it 
when  once  it  gets  a new  master.  So  this,  my  tear  child,  is  the 
sum  totem  of  what  I have  heard.’ 

Amanda  was  equally  astonished  and  affected  by  what  shr 
heard.  She  wished  to  know  if  the  nurse  had  received  any  in- 
telligence of  Lord  Mortimer’s  marriage,  but  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  ask  the  question.  Besides,  upon  reflection,  she  was 
convinced  she  should  have  heard  it  had  it  been  the  case.  With 
Lord  Cherbury  died  all  hopes  of  the  restoration  of  her  fame  in  the 
opinion  of  his  son.  ‘ Yet  why,’  she  asked  herself,  ‘ should  I re- 
gret this?  since  thus  separated,  it  is  better,  perhaps,  he  had  ceased 
to  esteem  me,  as  undoubtedly  it  must  lessen  his  feelings  on  my  ac- 
count.’ Why  he  should  part  with  Tudor  Hall  she  could  not  con- 
ceive, except  it  was  to  humor  some  caprice  of  Lady  Euphrasia’s, 
who,  it  was  probable,  she  imagined,  knew  that  the  attachment  be- 
tween Lord  Mortimer  and  her  had  there  commenced. 

‘ Ah ! ’ cried  Amanda,  ‘ she  never  could  have  relished  its  beau- 
ties— beauties  which,  if  Lord  Mortimer  thinks  as  I do,  would,  if 
reviewed,  only  have  augmented  his  sorrows — sorrows  which 
propriety  now  demands  his  repelling.’  She  hastened  to  the  hall, 
but  was  sometime  there  ere  she  could  commence  her  employment, 
so  much  had  she  been  agitated.  The  landscape  she  was  flnishing 
was  taken  from  the  little  valley  which  lay  beneath  the  windows 
of  the  music  room.  The  romantic  ruins  of  an  old  castle  overhung 
an  eminence  at  its  extremity ; and  of  the  whole  scene  she  had 
taken  a most  accurate  copy ; it  wanted  but  one  charm  to  please 
her,  and  that  charm  was  the  flgure  of  Lord  Mortimer,  with  whom 
she  had  often  wandered  round  the  ruiiis.  Her  hand  was  ready 
in  obeying  the  impulse  of  her  heart,  and  she  soon  beheld,  sketched 
in  the  most  striking  manner,  the  elegant  features  of  him  so  ar- 
dently beloved.  She  gazed  with  rapture  upon  them,  but  it  was  a 
short  lived  rapture.  She  started,  as  if  conscious  she  had  committed 
a crime,  when  she  reflected  on  the  situation  in  which  he  now 
stood  with  another  woman ; her  trembling  hand  hastened  to  atone 
for  its  error,  by  expunging  the  dangerous  likeness,  and  the  warm 
involuntary  tear  she  shed  at  that  moment  aided  her  design. 
‘Oh!  how  unnecessary,’  she  cried,  as  she  made  this  sacriflce  to 
delicacy,  ‘ to  sketch  features  which  are  indelibly  engraven  on  my 
heart.’  As  she  spoke,  a deep  and  long  drawn  sigh  reached  her 
ear.  Alarmed,  confounded  at  the  idea  of  being  overheard,  and  of 
course,  the  feelings  of  her  heart  discovered,  she  started  with 
precipitation  from  her  seat,  and  looked  round  her  with  a kind  of 


478 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


wild  confusion.  But,  gracious  Heavens!  who  can  describe  the 
emotions  of  her  soul  when  the  original  of  the  picture  so  fondly 
sketched,  so  hastily  obliterated,  met  her  eye.  Amazed,  unable  to 
speak,  to  move,  almost  to  breathe,  she  stood  motionless  and 
aghast,  the  pale  statue  of  surprise,  as  if  she  neither  durst  nor  could 
believe  the  evidence  of  her  eyes.  Well,  indeed,  might  she  have 
doubted  them,  for  in  the  pale  countenance  of  Lord  Mortimer 
scarce  a vestige  of  his  former  self  (except  in  the  benignancy  of  his 
looks)  remained.  His  faded  complexion,  the  disorder  of  his  hair, 
his  mourning  habit,  all  heightened  the  sad  expression  of  his 
features — an  expression  which  declared  that  he  and  happiness 
were  never  so  disunited  as  at  the  present  moment.  The  first 
violence  of  Amanda’s  feelings  in  a little  time  abated,  she  some- 
what recovered  the  use  of  her  faculties,  and  hastily  snatching  up 
her  drawings,  moved  with  weak  and  trembling  steps  to  the  door. 
She  had  nearly  reached  it,  when  the  soft,  the  tremulous  voice  of 
Lord  Mortimer  arrested  her  course.  ‘ You  go,  then.  Miss  Fitz- 
alan,’  cried  he,  ‘ without  one  adieu.  You  go,  and  we  never  more 
shall  meet.’  The  agonizing  manner  in  which  these  words  were 
pronounced,  struck  a death  like  chill  upon  the  heart  of  Amanda. 
She  stopped,  and  turned  around  involuntarily,  as  if  to  receive 
that  last,  that  sad  adieu,  which  she  was  half  reproached  for  avoid- 
ing. Lord  Mortimer  approached  her,  he  attempted  to  speak,  but 
his  voice  was  inarticulate ; a gust  of  sorrow  burst  from  his  eyes, 
and  he  hastily  covered  his  face  with  a handkerchief,  and  walked 
to  a window. 

Amanda,  unutterably  affected,  was  unable  to  stand  ; she  sunk 
upon  a chair,  and  watched  with  a bursting  heart  the  emotions  of 
Lord  Mortimer.  Oh ! with  what  difficulty  at  this  moment  did  she 
confine  herself  within  the  cold,  the  rigid  rules  of  propriety ; with 
what  difficulty  did  she  prevent  herself  from  flying  to  Lord  Mor- 
timer; from  mingling  her  tears  with  his,  and  lamenting  the  cruel 
destiny  which  had  disunited  them  forever.  Lord  Mortimer  in  a 
few  minutes  was  sufficiently  recovered  again  to  approach  her.  ‘ 1 
have  long  wished  for  an  opportunity  of  seeing  you,’  said  he,  ‘but 
I had  not  courage  to  desire  an  interview.  How  little  did  I imagine 
this  morning,  when,  like  a sad  exile,  I came  to  take  a last  farewell 
of  a favorite  residence,  that  I should  behold  you  I Fate,  in  grant- 
ing this  interview,  has  for  once  befriended  me.  To  express  my 
horror — my  remorse — my  anguish — not  only  for  the  error  a com- 
bination of  events  led  me  into  concerning  you,  but  for  the  conduct 
that  error  influenced  me  to  adopt,  will,  I think,  a little  lighten  my 
heart.  To  receive  your  pardon  will  be  a sweet,  a sad  consolation ; 
yet,’  continued  he,  after  a moment's  pause,  ‘ why  do  I say  it  will 
be  a consolation  ? Alas!  the  sweetness  that  may  lead  you  to  ac- 
cord it  will  only  heighten  my  wretchedness  at  our  eternal  separa* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


479 


ation.’  Here  he  paused.  Amanda  was  unable  to  speak.  His 
words  seemed  to  imply  he  was  acquainted  with  the  injuries  she 
had  sustained  through  his  father’s  means,  and  she  waited  in  trem- 
bling expectation  for  an  explanation  of  them.  ‘ The  purity  of 
your  character,  ’ exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘ was  at  length  fully 
revealed  to  me.  Good  Heaven ! under  what  afflicting  circum- 
stances ! by  that  being,  to  whom  you  so  generously  made  a sacri- 
fice of  what  then  you  might  have  considered  your  happiness.’’ 
‘Did  Lord  Cherbury,  then,’  said  Amanda,  with  inexpressible 
eagerness,  ‘did  he  then,  at  last,  justify  me  ? ’ ‘Yes,’  cried  Lord 
Mortimer,  ‘ he  proved  you  were  indeed  the  most  excellent,  the 
most  injured  of  human  beings;  that  you  were  all  which  my  fond 
heart  had  once  believed  you  to  be ; but  oh ! what  were  the  dreadful 
emotions  of  that  heart  to  know  his  justification  came  too  late  to 
restore  its  peace.  Once  there  was  a happy  period,  when,  after  a 
similar  error  being  removed,  I had  hoped,  by  a life  forever  de- 
voted to  you,  to  have  made  some  reparation,  some  atonement,  for 
my  involuntary  injustice ; but  alas ! no  reparation,  no  atonement 
can  now  be  made.’ 

Amanda  wept.  She  raised  her  streaming  eyes  to  heaven,  and 
again  cast  them  to  the  earth. 

‘ You  weep,’  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  in  a tone  expressive  of  sur- 
prise, after  surveying  her  some  minutes  in  silence.  ‘ My  love, 
my  Amanda,’  continued  he,  suddenly  seizing  her  hand,  while  he 
surveyed  her  with  a most  rapturous  fondness,  a crimson  glow 
mantling  his  cheek,  and  a beam  of  wonted  brilliancy  darting  front 
his  eye,  ‘ What  am  I to  imagine  from  those  tears  ! are  you,  then, 
indeed,  unaltered  ? ’ 

Amanda  started.  She  feared  the  emotions  she  betrayed  had  con- 
vinced Lord  Mortimer  of  the  continuance,  the  unabated  strength, 
of  her  affection.  She  felt  shocked  at  her  imprudence,  which  had 
alone,  she  was  convinced,  tempted  Lord  Mortimer  to  address  her 
in  such  a manner.  ‘I  know  not,  my  lord,’  cried  she,  ‘in  what 
sense  you  ask  whether  I am  unchanged  ; but  of  this  be  assured,  a 
total  alteration  must  have  taken  place  in  my  sentiments,  if  I coula 
remain  a moment  longer  with  a person  who  seems  at  once  forget- 
ful of  what  is  due  to  his  own  situation  and  mine.  ‘ Go,  then, 
madam,’  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  in  an  accent  of  displeasure, 
‘ and  pardon  my  having  thus  detained  you — pardon  my  involun- 
tary offense — excuse  my  having  disturbed  your  retirement,  and 
obtruded  my  sorrows  on  you.’ 

Amanda  had  now  reached  the  door.  Her  heart  recoiled  at  the 
idea  of  parting  in  such  a manner  from  Lord  Mortimer,  but  pru- 
dence bade  her  hasten  as  fast  as  possible  from  him.  Yet  slow  and 
lingering  she  pursued  her  way.  Ere  she  had  gone  many  yards 
she  was  overtaken  by  Lord  Mortimer.  His  pride  was  inferior  to 


480 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


liis  tenderness,  which  drove  him  to  despair  at  the  idea  of  parting* 
in  displeasure  from  her,  ‘ Oh ! inj^  Amanda,’  cried  he,  seizing  her 
hand,  and  almost  breathless  with  emotion,  ‘add  not,  by  your 
anger,  to  the  bitterness  of  this  sad  hour.  Since  we  must  part,  oh! 
let  us  part  in  amity,  as  friends  that  regard  each  other.  You  have 
not  yet  (if,  indeed,  it  is  possible  for  you  to  do  so)  pronounced  your 
forgiveness  of  the  persecutions  you  underwent  on  my  account. 
You  have  not  granted  your  pardon  for  the  harshness,  the  cruelty 
with  which  a dreadful  error  tempted  me  to  treat  you.’  ‘Oh!  my 
lord,’  said  Amanda,  again  yielding  to  the  softness  of  her  soul, 
while  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks,  ‘ why  torture  me  by  speak- 
ing in  this  manner  ? How  can  I pronounce  forgiveness  when  I 
never  was  offended  ? When,  wretched  and  deserted,  I appeared 
to  stand  upon  the  great  theater  of  life,  without  one  hand  to  offer 
me  assistance,  your  ready  friendship  came  to  my  relief,  and  poured 
the  balm  of  comfort  over  the  sorrows  of  my  heart ! when  deprived 
by  deceit  and  cruelty  of  your  good  opinion,  even  then  your  atten- 
tion and  solicitude  pursued  my  wandering  footsteps,  and  strove  to 
make  a path  of  comfort  for  me  to  take ! these,  these  are  the  obli- 
gations that  never  can  be  forgotten,  that  demand,  that  possess, 

my  eternal  gratitude,  my ’ A warmer  expression  rose  to  her 

lips,  but  was  again  buried  in  her  heart,  She  siglied,  and  after  a 
pause  of  a minute,  thus  went  on : ‘ For  your  happiness,  my  warm- 
-est,  purest  prayers  are  daily  offered  up;  oh ! may  it  yet  be  equal  to 
your  virtues;  greater  I cannot  wish.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  groaned  in  the  excruciating  agony  of  his  soul. 
* O Amanda,’  he  said,  ‘ where,  where  can  I receive  consolation 
for  your  loss?  Never,  never  in  the  world!’  He  took  her  hands 
within  his,  he  raised  them  to  heaven,  as  if  supplicating  its 
choicest  blessings  on  her  head.  ‘ For  my  happiness  you  pray ; ah ! 
my  love,  how  unavailing  is  the  prayer!  ’ 

Amanda  now  saw  more  than  ever  the  necessity  of  hastening 
Rway.  She  gently  withdrew  her  hands,  and  hurried  on  as  fast  as 
her  trembling  limbs  could  carry  her.  Still  Lord  Mortimer  at- 
tended her.  ‘ Yet,  Amanda,’  cried  he,  ‘ a little  moment.  Tell 
me,’  he  continued,  again  seizing  her  hand,  ‘ do  not  these  shades 
remind  you  of  departed  hours?  Oh!  what  blissful  ones  have  we 
mot  passed  beneath  their  foliage,  that  foliage  which  I shall  never 
more  behold  expanding  to  the  breath  of  spring.’ 

Amanda  , trembled.  This  involuntary  but.  sad  declaration  of 
tthe  loss  of  a seat  so  valued  by  him,  overpowered  her.  Her  res- 
piration grew  faint,  she  could  not  support  herself,  and  made  a 
motion  to  sit  down  upon  the  grass,  but  Lord  Mortimer  eagerly 
caught  her  to  his  bosom.  She  had  not  strength  to  resist  the  ef* 
fort,  and  her  head  reclined  upon  his  shoulder.  But  who  can 
sneak  her  feelings  as  she  felt  the  beating  heart  of  Mortimer,  which, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


4811 


from  its  violent  palpitations,  seemed  as  if  it  would  burst  his 
bosom  to  find  a passage  to  her  feet.  In  a few  minutes  she  was  a 
little  recovered,  and  sensible  of  the  impropriety  of  her  situation, 
was  now  resolutely  determined  to  quit  Lord  Mortimer.  * We 
must  part,  my  lord,’  cried  she,  disengaging  herself  from  his  arms, 
notwithstanding  a gentle  effort  he  made  to  retain  her.  ‘We 
must  part,  my  lord,’  she  repeated,  ‘ and  part  forever.’  ‘ Tell  me, 
then,’  he  exclaimed,  still  impeding  her  course,  ‘tell  me  whether  ^ 
I may  hope  to  live  in  your  remembrance;  whether  I may  hope 
not  to  be  obliterated  from  your  memory  by  the  happiness  which  v 
will  shortly  surround  you?  Promise  I shall  at  times  be  thought 
of  with  your  wonted,  though,  alas ! unavailing  wishes  for  my 
happiness,  and  the  promise  will,  perhaps,  afford  me  consolation 
in  the  solitary  exile  I have  doomed  myself  to.’  ‘ Oh!  my  lord,’' 
said  Amanda,  unable  to  repress  her  feelings,  ‘ why  do  I hear  you 
speak  in  this  m£  nner?  In  mentioning  exile,  do  you  not  declare 
your  intentions  of  leaving  unfulfilled  the  claims  which  situation,, 
family,  and  society  have  upon  you?  Oh!  my  lord,  you  shock — 
shall  I say  more— you  disappoint  me ! Yes,  I repeat  it,  disappoint 
the  idea  I had  formed  of  the  virtue  and  fortitude  of  him,  who,  as 
a friend,  I shall  ever  regard.  To  yield  thus  to  sorrow,  to  neglect 
the  incumbent  duties  of  life,  to  abandon  a woman  to  whom  so* 
lately  you  plighted  your  solemn  vows  of  love  and  protection.  Oh  t 
my  lord,  what  will  her  friends,  what  will  Lady  Euphrasia  her- 
self say  to  such  cruel,  such  unjustifiable  conduct  ? ’ ‘ Lady  Eu- 

phrasia ! ’ repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  recoiling  a few  paces.  ‘ Lady 
Euphrasia  ! ’ he  again  exclaimed,  in  tremulous  accents,  regarding* 
Amanda  with  an  expression  of  mingled  horror  and  wildness. 

‘ Gracious  Heaven ! is  it — can  it  be  possible  you  are  ignorant  of 
the  circumstances  which  lately  happened?  Yes,  your  words, 
your  looks  declare  you  are  so.  ’ 

It  was  now  Amanda’s  turn  to  repeat  his  words.  She  demanded, 
with  a wildness  of  countenance  equal  to  that  he  had  just  dis- 
played, what  were  the  circumstances  he  alluded  to. 

‘ First  tell  me,’  cried  he,  ‘ was  the  alteration  in  your  manner 
produced  by  your  supposing  me  the  husband  of  Lady  Euphrasia?^ 
‘Supposing  you  her  husband?’  repeated  Amanda,  unable  ta 
answer  his  question  in  a moment  of  such  torturing  suspense. 
‘And  are  you  not  so?’  ‘ No,’  replied  Lord  Mortimer;  ‘I  never 
had  the  misfortune  to  offer  vows  which  my  heart  could  not 
ratify.  Lady  Euphrasia  made  another  choice.  She  was  your 
enemy ; but  I know  your  gentle  spirit  will  mourn  her  sad  and 
sudden  fate.’  He  ceased,  for  Amanda  had  no  longer  power  to 
listen.  She  sunk,  beneath  surprise  and  joy,  into  the  expanded; 
arms  of  her  beloved  Mortimer.  It  is  ye  alone,  who,  like  her, 
have  stood  upon  the  very  brink  of  despair — who,  like  her,  have* 


482 


TEIE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


been  restored,  unexpectedly  restored  to  hope,  to  happiness,  that 
oan  form  any  judgment  of  her  feelings  at  the  present  moment. 
At  the  moment  when,  recovering  from  her  insensibility,  the  soft 
accent  of  Lord  Mortimer  saluted  her  ear,  and  made  her  heart, 
without  one  censure  from  propriety,  respond  to  rapture,  as  he 
held  her  to  his  bosom.  As  he  gazed  on  her  with  tears  of  im- 
passioned tenderness,  he  repeated  his  question,  whether  the 
alteration  in  her  manner  was  produced  alone  by  the  supposition 
c f his  marriage ; but  he  repeated  it  with  a sweet,  a happy  con- 
sciousness of  having  it  answered  according  to  his  wishes. 

‘ These  tears,  these  emotions,  O Mortimer,  what  do  they  de- 
clare? ’ exclaimed  Amanda.  ‘Ah!  do  they  not  say  my  heart 
never  knew  a diminution  of  tenderness,  that  it  never  could  have 
forgotten  you?  Yes,’  she  continued,  raising  her  eyes,  streaming 
with  tears  of  rapture,  to  heaven,  ‘ I am  now  recompensed  for  all 
my  sufferings.  Yes,  in  this  blissful  moment,  I meet  a full 
reward  for  them.  ’ Lord  Mortimer  now  led  her  back  to  the  library, 
to  give  an  explanation  of  the  events  which  had  produced  so  great 
a reverse  of  situation ; but  it  was  long  ere  he  could  sufficiently 
compose  himself  to  commence  his  narrative.  Alternately  he 
fell  at  the  feet  of  Amanda,  alternately  he  folded  her  to  his 
bosom,  and  asked  his  heart  if  its  present  happiness  was  real.  A 
thousand  times  he  questioned  her  whether  she  was  indeed  un- 
altered— as  often  implored  her  forgiveness  for  one  moment 
doubting  her  constancy.  Amanda  exerted  her  spirits  to  calm 
her  own  agitation,  that  she  might  be  enabled  to  soothe  him  into 
tranquillity.  At  length  she  succeeded,  and  he  terminated  her 
anxious  impatience  by  giving  her  the  promised  relation. 

CHAPTER  LVI. 

By  suffering  well,  our  torture  we  subdue, 

Fly  when  she  frowns,  and  when  She  calls  pursue. 

Overwhelmed  with  grief  and  disappointment  at  the  supposed 
perfidy  of  Amanda,  Lord  Mortimer  had  returned  to  England, 
acquainting  Lord  Cherbury  and  Lady  Martha  of  the  unhappy 
oause  of  his  returning  alone;  entreating  them,  in  pity  to  his 
wounded  feelings,  never  to  mention  the  distressing  subject  before 
him.  His  dejection  was  unconquerable ; all  his  schemes  of  felicity 
were  overthrown,  and  the  destruction  of  his  hopes  was  the  de- 
struction of  his  peace.  It  was  not  in  these  first  transports  of 
bitter  sorrow  that  Lord  Cherbury  ventured  to  speak  his  wishes 
to  his  son.  He  waited  till,  by  slow  degrees,  he  saw  a greater 
degree  of  composure  in  his  manner,  though  it  was  a composure 
attended  with  no  abatement  of  melancholy.  At  first  he  only 
hinted  those  wishes — hints,  however,  which  Lord  Mortimer  ap^ 


THE  CHILDBEN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


48S 


peared  designedly  insensible  of.  At  last  the  earl  spoke  plainer. 
He  mentioned  his  deep  regret  at  beholding  a son,  whom  he  had 
ever  considered  the  pride  of  his  house  and  the  solace  of  his  days^ 
wasting  his  youth  in  wretchedness,  for  an  ungrateful  woman^ 
who  had  long  triumphed  in  the  infatuation  which  bound  him  to? 
her.  ‘It  filled  his  soul  with  anguish,’  he  said,  ‘ to  behold  him 
lost  to  himself,  his  family,  and  the  world,  thus  disappointing  all 
the  hopes  and  expectations  which  the  fair  promise  of  his  earljr 
youth  had  given  rise  to  in  the  bosom  of  his  friends  concerning 
the  meridan  of  his  day.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  unutterably  affected  by  what  his  father 
said.  The  earl  beheld  his  emotions,  and  blessed  it  as  a happy 
omen.  His  pride,  as  well  as  sensibility,  he  continued,  were 
deeply  wounded  at  the  idea  of  having  Lord  Mortimer  still  con- 
sidered  the  slave  of  a passion  which  had  met  so  base  a return.. 
‘Oh!  let  not  the  world,’  added  he,  with  increasing  energy,, 
‘triumph  in  your  weakness;  try  to  shake  it  off,  ere  the  finger 
of  scorn  and  ridicule  is  pointed  at  you  as  the  dupe  of  a deceitful 
woman’s  art.’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  inexpressibly  shocked.  His  pride  had 
frequently  represented  as  weakness  the  regret  he  felt  for  Amanda; 
and  the  ear  now  stimulating  that  pride,  he  felt  at  the  moment 
as  if  he  could  make  any  sacrifice  which  should  prove  his  having 
triumphed  over  his  unfortunate  attachment.  But  when  his  father 
called  on  him  to  make  such  a sacrifice,  by  uniting  himself  to 
Lady  Euphrasia,  he  shrunk  back,  and  acknowledged  he  could 
not  give  so  fatal  a proof  of  fortitude.  He  declared  his  total  re- 
pugnance at  present  to  any  alliance.  Time,  and  the  efforts  of 
reason,  he  trusted,  would  subdue  his  ill-placed  attachment,  and 
enable  him  to  comply  with  the  wishes  of  his  friends. 

Lord  Cherbury  would  not,  could  not  drop  the  subject  next  his 
heart — a subject  so  important,  so  infinitely  interesting  to  him. 
He  exerted  all  his  eloquence,  he  entreated,  he  implored  his  son  not 
forever  to  disappoint  his  wishes.  He  mentioned  the  compliance  he. 
had  so  recently  shown  to  his,  though  against  his  better  judg- 
ment, in  the  useless  consent  he  had  given  to  his  marriage 
with  Miss  Fitzalan. 

Lord  Mortimer,  persecuted  by  his  arguments,  at  length  de- 
clared that,  was  the  object  he  pointed  out  for  his  alliance  any 
other  than  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland,  he  would  not  perhaps  be 
so  reluctant  to  comply  with  his  wishes  ; but  she  was  a woman  he* 
could  never  esteem,  and  must  consequently  forever  refuse.  She 
had  given  such  specimens  of  cruelty  and  deceit,  in  the  schemes 
she  had  entered  into  with  the  marchioness  against  (he  blushed,  he 
faltered,  as  he  pronounced  her  name)  Miss  Fitzalan,  that  his 
heart  felt  unutterable  dislike  to  her. 


484 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


The  earl  was  prepared  for  this  ; he  had  the  barbarity  to  de- 
43lare,  in  the  most  unhesitating  manner,  he  was  sorry  to  find  him 
:still  blinded  by  the  art  of  that  wretched  girl.  He  bade  him 
Tefiect  on  her  conduct,  and  then  consider  whether  any  credence 
was  to  be  given  to  her  declaration  of  Belgrave  s being  admitted 
to  the  house  without  her  knowledge. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  startled.  Her  conduct  indeed,  as  his  father 
said,  might  well  make  him  doubt  her  veracity.  But  still  the 
-evidence  of  the  servants ; they  acknowledged  having  been  instru- 
ments in  forwarding  the  scheme  which  she  said  was  laid  against 
her.  He  mentioned  this  circumstance.  The  earl  was  also  prepared 
for  it  ; the  servants,  he  declared,  had  been  examined  in  his  pres- 
ence. when  with  shame  and  contrition  they  confessed,  that  see- 
ing the  strong  anxiety  of  Lord  Mortimer  for  the  restoration  of 
Miss  Fitzalan’s  fame,  and  tempted  by  the  large  bribes  he  offered, 
if  they  could  or  would  say  anything  in  her  justification,  they 
had  at  last  made  the  allegation  so  pleasing  to  him. 

Lord  Mortimer  sighed  deeply.  ‘On  every  side,’  cried  he,  ‘I 
find  I have  been  the  dupe  of  art ; but  it  was  only  the  deceit  of 
one  could  agonize  my  soul.’  Still,  however,  he  was  inexorable 
to  all  his  father  could  say  relative  to  Lady  Euphrasia. 

Lady  Martha  was  at  last  called  in  as  an  auxiliary  ; she  was 
now  as  strenuous  for  the  connection  as  ever  Lord  Cherbury  had 
been.  A longer  indulgence  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  grief,  she  feared, 
would  completely  undermine  his  health,  and  either  render  him  a 
burden  to  himself,  or  precipitate  him  to  an  early  grave.  While 
he  continued  single,  she  knew  he  would  not  consider  any  vigor- 
ous exertions  for  overcoming  that  grief  necessary  ; but  if  once 
united,  she  was  convinced,  from  the  rectitude  and  sensibility  of 
his  disposition,  he  would  struggle  against  his  feelings,  in  order  to 
fulfill  the  incumbent  duties  he  had  imposed  upon  himself.  Thus 
did  she  deem  a union  requisite  to  rouse  him  to  exertion  : to 
restore  his  peace,  and  in  all  probability  to  save  his  life.  She 
joined  in  her  brother  s arguments  and  entreaties,  with  tears  she 
joined  in  them,  and  besought  Mortimer  to  accede  to  their  wishes. 
iShe  called  him  the  last  hope  of  their  house.  He  had  long,  she 
;said,  been  the  pride,  the  delight  of  their  days  ; their  comfort, 
their  existence  were  interwoven  in  his  ; if  he  sunk,  they  sunk 
with  him. 

The  yielding  soul  of  Mortimer  could  not  resist  such  tender- 
ness, and  he  gave  a promise  of  acting  as  they  wished.  He 
imagined  he  could  not  be  more  wretched  ; but  scarcely  had  this 
promise  passed  his  lips,  ere  he  felt  an  augmentation  of  misery. 
To  enter  into  new  engagements,  to  resign  the  sweet  though 
melancholy  privilege  of  indulging  his  feelings,  to  fetter  at  once 
both  soul  and  body,  were  ideas  that  filled  him  with  unutterable 


-THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


485 


anguish.  A thousand  times  was  he  on  the  point  of  retracting 
his  regretted  and  reluctant  promise,  had  not  honor  interposed 
and  showed  the  inability  of  doing  so,  without  an  infringement 
on  its  principles.  Thus  entangled,  Mortimer  endeavored  to  col- 
lect his  scattered  thought,  and  in  order  to  try  and  gain  some 
composure,  he  altered  his  former  plan  of  acting,  and  mingled  as 
much  as  possible  in  society.  He  strove  to  fly  from  himself,  that  by 
so  doing  he  might  fly  from  the  corrosive  remembrances  which, 
embittered  his  life.  But  who  shall  paint  his  agonies  at  the  un- 
expected sight  of  Amanda  at  the  Macqueens  ? The  exertions  he 
had  for  some  time  before  compelled  himself  to  make,  had  a little 
abated  the  pain  of  his  feeling;  but  that  pain  returned  with  re- 
doubled violence  at  her  presence,  and  every  idea  of  present 
composure,  or  of  future  tranquillity,  vanished.  He  felt  with 
regret,  anguish,  that  she  was  as  dear  as  ever  to  his  soul  and  his 
destined  union  became  more  hateful  than  ever  to  him.  He 
tried,  by  recollecting  her  conduct,  to  awaken  his  resentment; 
but,  alas  ! softness,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  the  contrary,  was; 
the  predominant  feeling  of  his  soul.  Her  pallid  cheek,  her  deep 
dejection,  seemed  to  say  she  was  the  child  of  sorrow  and  re- 
pentance. To  sooth  that  sorrow,  to  strengthen  that  repentance, 
oh  ! how  delightful  unto  him  ; but  either  he  durst  not  do,  situ- 
ated as  he  then  was. 

With  the  utmost  difficulty  Lady  Martha  Dormer  prevailed  on 
him  to  be  present  when  she  demanded  the  picture  from  Amanda. 
That  scene  has  already  been  described ; also  his  parting  one  with 
her;  but  to  describe  the  anguish  he  endured  after  this  period  is 
impossible.  He  beheld  Lady  Euphrasia  with  a degree  of  horror;, 
his  faltering  voice  refused  even  to  pay  her  the  accustomed  com- 
pliments of  meeting;  he  loathed  the  society  he  met  at  the  castle, 
and,  regardless  of  what  would  be  thought  of  him,  regardless  of 
health,  or  the  bleakness  of  the  season,  wandered  for  hours  to- 
gether in  the  most  unfrequented  parts  of  the  domain,  the  veriest 
son  of  wretchedness  and  despair. 

The  day,  the  dreaded  day,  at  length  arrived  which  was  to  com- 
plete his  misery.  The  company  were  all  assembled  in  the  great, 
hall  of  the  castle,  from  whence  they  were  to  proceed  to  the  chapel, 
and  every  moment  expected  the  appearance  of  the  bride.  The 
marquis,  surprised  at  her  long  delay,  sent  a messenger  to  request 
her  immediate  presence,  who  returned  in  a few  minutes  with  a. 
letter,  which  he  presented  to  the  marquis,  who  broke  the  seal  irk 
visible  trepidation,  and  found  it  from  Lady  Euphrasia. 

She  had  taken  a step,  she  said,  which  she  must  depend  on  the 
kind  indulgence  of  her  parents  to  excuse;  a step  which  nothing 
but  a Arm  conviction  that  happiness  could  not  be  experienced  in: 
a union  with  Lord  Mortimer,  should  have  tempted  her  to.  His- 


486 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


uniform  indifference  had  at  last  convinced  her  that  motives  of 
the  most  interested  nature  influenced  his  addresses  to-her;  and  if 
her  parents  inquired  into  his,  or,  at  least,  Lord  Cherbury’s  con 
•duct,  they  would  And  her  assertion  true,  and  would,  consequently, 
she  trusted,  excuse  her  for  not  submitting’  to  be  sacrificed  at  the 
shrine  of  interest.  In  selecting  Mr.  Freelove  for  her  choice,  she 
had  selected  a man  whose  addresses  were  not  prompted  by  selfish 
views,  but  by  a sincere  affection,  which  he  would  openb  have 
avowed,  had  he  not  been  assured,  in  the  present  situation  of  af- 
fairs, it  would  have  met  with  opposition.  To  avoid,  therefore,  a 
positive  act  of  disobedience,  she  had  consented  to  a private  union. 
To  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lord  Cherbury,  she  said,  she  deemed  no 
apology  necessary  for  her  conduct,  as  their  hearts,  at  least  Lord 
Cherbury’s,  would  at  once  exculpate  her,  from  his  own  conscious- 
ness of  not  having  acted  either  generously  or  honorably  to  her. 

The  violent  transports  of  passion  the  marquis  experienced  are 
not  to  be  described.  The  marchioness  hastily  perused  the  letter, 
and  her  feelings  were  not  inferior  in  violence  to  his.  Its  contents 
were  soon  known,  and  amazement  sat  on  every  countenance. 
But,  oh ! what  joy  did  they  inspire  in  the  soul  of  Lord  Mortimer ; 
not  a respite,  or  rather  a full  pardon  to  the  condemned  wretch,  at 
the  very  moment  when  preparing  for  death,  could  have  yielded 
more  exquisite  delight ; but  to  Lord  Cherbury,  what  a disappoint- 
ment ! It  was  indeed  a death  stroke  to  his  hopes.  The  hints  in 
Lady  Euphrasia’s  letter  concerning  him  plainly  declared  her 
knowledge  of  his  conduct ; he  foresaw  an  immediate  demand  from 
Freelove;  foresaw  the  disgrace  he  should  experience  when  his 
inability  to  discharge  that  demand  was  known.  His  soul  was 
shaken  in  its  inmost  recesses,  and  the  excruciating  anguish  of  his 
feelings  was  indeed  as  severe  a punishment  as  he  could  suffer. 
Pale,  speechless,  aghast,  the  most  horrid  ideas  took  possession  of 
his  mind,  yet  he  sought  not  to  repel  them,  for  anything  was  pre- 
ferable to  the  shame  he  saw  awaiting  him. 

Lord  Mortimer’s  indignation  was  excited  by  the  aspersions  cast 
upon  his  father,  aspersions  he  imputed  entirely  to  the  malice  of 
Lady  Euphrasia,  and  which,  from  the  character  of  Lord  Cher- 
bury, he  deemed  it  unnecessary  to  attempt  refuting.  But  alas ! 
what  a shock  did  his  noble,  his  unsuspicious  nature  receive,  when, 
in  a short  time  after  the  perusal  of  her  letter,  .one  from  Freelove 
was  brought  him,  which  fully  proved  the  truth  of  her  assertions. 
Freelove,  in  his  little  trifling  manner,  expressed  his  hopes  that 
there  would  be  no  difference  between  his  lordship  and  him,  for 
whom  he  expressed  the  most  entire  friendship,  on  account  of  the 
fair  lady  who  had  honored  him  with  her  regard ; declared  her  par- 
tiality was  quite  irresistible;  and,  moreover,  that  in  love,  as  in 
VV'ar,  every  advantage  was  allowable ; begged  to  trouble  his  lordship 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


437 


with  his  compliments  to  Lord  Cherbury,  and  a request  that  every- 
thing might  be  prepared  to  settle  matters  between  them,  on  his 
return  from  his  matrimonial  expedition.  An  immediate  compli- 
ance with  this  request,  he  was  convinced,  could  not  be  in  the  least 
distressing;  and  it  was  absolutely  essential  to  him,  from  the  eclat 
with  which  he  designed  Lady  Euphrasia  Freelove  should  make 
her  bridal  entry  into  public.  As  to  the  report,  he  said,  which  he 
had  heard  relative  to  Lord  Cherbury’s  losing  the  fortune  which 
was  intrusted  to  his  care  for  him  at  the  gambling  table,  he  quite 
disbelieved  it. 

The  most  disti’essing,  the  most  mortifying  sensations  took  pos- 
session of  Lord  Mortimer  at  this  part  of  the  letter.  It  explained 
the  reasons  of  Lord  Cherbury  s strong  anxiety  for  an  alliance 
with  the  Roslin  family,  which  Lord  Mortimer,  indeed,  had  often 
wondered  at,  and  he  at  once  pitied,  condemned,  and  blushed  for 
him.  He  stole  a glance  at  his  father,  and  his  deep,  despairing  look 
hlled  him  with  horror.  He  resolved,  the  first  opportunity,  to  de- 
clare his  knowledge  of  the  fatal  secret  which  oppressed  him,  and 
his  resolution  of  making  any  sacrifice  which  could  possibly  remove 
or  lessen  his  inquietude. 

Lord  Cherbury  was  anxious  to  fly  from  the  now  hated  castle, 
ere  further  confusion  overtook  him.  He  mentioned  his  intention 
of  immediately  departing— an  intention  opposed  by  the  marquis, 
but  in  which  he  was  steady,  and  also  supported  by  his  son. 

Everything  was  ready  for  their  departure,  when  Lord  Cherbury, 
overwhelmed  by  the  dreadful  agitation  he  experienced,  was  seized 
with  a fit  of  the  most  violent  and  alarming  nature.  He  was  car- 
ried to  a chamber,  and  recourse  was  obliged  to  be  had  to  a phy- 
sician, ere  the  restoration  of  his  senses  was  effected ; but  he  was 
then  so  weak  that  the  physician  declared,  if  not  kept  quiet,  a return 
of  his  disorder  might  be  expected.  Lord  Mortimer,  tenderly  im- 
patient to  lighten  the  burden  on  his  father’s  mind,  dismissed  the 
attendants  as  soon  as  he  possibly  could,  and  then,  in  the  most  del- 
icate terms,  declared  his  knowledge  of  his  situation. 

Lord  Cherbury  at  this  started  up  in  the  most  violent  paroxysm 
of  anguish,  and  vowed  he  would  never  survive  the  discovery  of 
his  being  a villain.  With  difficulty  could  Lord  Mortimer  com- 
pose him ; but  it  was  long  ere  he  could  prevail  on  him  to  hear 
what  he  wished  to  say. 

Few  there  were,  he  said,  who  at  some  period  of  their  lives,  he  be- 
lieved, were  not  led  into  actions  which,  upon  reflection,  they  had 
reason  to  regret.  He  thought  not,  he  meant  not,  to  speak  slightly 
of  human  nature,  he  only  wished  to  prove  that,  liable  as  we  all  are 
to  fraility — a fraility  intended  no  doubt  to  check  the  arrogance  of 
pride  and  presumption,  we  should  not  suffer  the  remembrance  of 
error,  when  once  sincerely  repented  of,  to  plunge  us  into  despair. 


488 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


particularly  when,  as  far  as  in  our  power,  we  meant  to  atone  for 
it.  Thus  did  Lord  Mortimer  attempt  to  calm  the  dreadful  conflicts 
of  his  father’s  mind,  who  still  continued  to  inveigh  against  him 
self. 

The  sale  of  Tudor  Hall,  Lord  Mortimer  proceeded,  and  mort- 
gages  upon  Lord  Cherbury’s  estates,  would  enable  his  father  to 
discharge  his  debt  to  Mr.  Freelove.  He  knew,  he  said,  it  was 
tenderness  to  him  which  had  prevented  him  ere  this  from  adopt- 
ing such  a plan ; but  he  besought  him  to  let  no  further  consider- 
ation on  his  account  make  him  delay  fulfilling  immediately  the 
claims  of  honor  and  justice.  He  besought  him  to  believe  his  tran- 
quillity was  more  precious  to  him  than  anything  in  life ; that  the 
restoration  of  his  peace  was  far  more  estimable  to  him  than  the 
possession  of  the  most  brilliant  fortune — ‘ a possession  which,’  con- 
tinued Lord  Mortimer,  deeply  sighing,  ‘ I am  well  convinced  will 
not  alone  yield  happiness.  I have  long,’  said  he,  ‘looked  with  an 
eye  of  cool  indifference  on  the  pomps,  the  pageantries  of  life. 
Disappointed  in  my  tenderest  hopes  and  expectations,  wealth, 
merely  on  my  own  account,  has  been  long  valueless  to  me.  Its 
loss,  I make  no  doubt — nay,  I am  convinced — I shall  have  reason 
to  consider  as  a blessing.  It  will  compel  me  to  make  those  exer- 
tions which  its  possession  would  have  rendered  unnecessary,  and 
by  so  doing,  in  all  probability,  remove  from  my  heart  that  sadness 
which  has  so  long  clung  about  it,  and  enervated  all  its  powers.  A 
profession  lies  open  to  receive  me,  which,  had  I been  permitted  at 
a much  earlier  period,  I should  have  embraced  ; for  a military 
life  was  always  my  passion.  At  the  post  of  danger,  I may  per- 
haps have  the  happiness  of  performing  services  for  my  country, 
which,  while  loitering  supinely  in  the  shade  of  prosperity,  I never 
could  have  done.  Thus,  my  dear  father,’  he  continued,  ‘ you  see 
how  erroneous  we  are  in  opinions  we  often  form  of  things,  since 
what  we  often  consider  as  the  bitterest  evil  leads  to  the  most  su- 
preme good.  We  will,  as  soon  as  possible,  hasten  everything  to 
be  prepared  for  Freelove,  and  thus,  I make  no  doubt,  disappoint 
the  little  malice  of  his  soul. 

‘My  aunt,  my  sister,  are  unacquainted  with  your  uneasiness, 
nor  shall  an  intimation  of  it  from  me  ever  transpire  to  them.  Of 
fortune,  sufficient  will  remain  to  allow,  though  not  the  splendors, 
the  comforts  and  elegancies  of  life.  As  forme,  the  deprivation  of 
what  is  considered,  and  falsely  termed,  my  accustomed  indulgen- 
ces, will  be  the  most  salutary  and  efficacious  thing  that  could 
possibly  happen  to  me.  In  short,  I believe  that  the  realization  of 
my  plan  will  render  me  happy,  since,  with  truth  I can  assure  you, 
its  anticipation  has  already  given  more  pleasure  to  my  soul  than 
I thought  it  would  ever  have  again  enjoyed.’ 

Lord  Cherbury,  overcome  by  the  tenderness,  the  virtue  of  his 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


489 


son,  by  the  sacrifice  he  so  willingly  offered,  so  strenuously  in- 
sisted on  making,  of  his  paternal  fortune,  could  not  for  some 
minutes  speak.  At  length  the  struggling  emotions  of  his  soul 
found  utterance. 

‘Oh!  Virtue,’ he  exclaimed,  while  tears  of  love,  of  gratitude, 
)f  contrition,  flowed  from  his  eyes,  and  fell  upon  the  hand  of  his 
5on,  clasped  within  his — ‘Oh!  Virtue,  I cannot  say,  like  Brutus, 
thou  art  but  a shade ; no,  here,  in  this  invaluable  son,  thou  art 
personified — this  son,  whom  I so  cruelly  deceived,  so  bitterly 
distressed ! Oh ! gracious  powers,  would  not  that  heroic,  that 
heaven-born  disposition,  which  now  leads  him  to  sign  away  his 
paternal  fortune  for  my  sake  have  also  led  him  to  a still  greater 
resignation,  the  sacrifice  of  his  Amanda,  had  I entrusted  him 
with  my  wretched  situation.  Oh!  had  I confided  in  him,  what 
an  act  of  baseness  should  I have  avoided ! What  pangs,  what 
tortures,  should  I have  prevented  his  experiencing!  But,  to 
save  my  own  guilty  confusion,  I drew  wretchedness  upon  his 
head.  I wrung  every  fiber  of  his  heart  with  agony,  by  making 
him  believe  its  dearest,  its  most  valuable  object  unworthy  of  its 
regards.’ 

Mortimer  started : he  gasped — he  repeated,  in  faltering  accents, 
these  last  words.  His  soul  seemed  as  if  it  would  burst  its  mortal 
bounds,  and  soar  to  another  region  to  hear  an  avowal  of  his 
Amanda’s  purity. 

‘ O Mortimer  ! ’ cried  the  earl,  in  the  deep,  desponding  tone 
of  anguish,  ‘ how  shall  I dare  to  lift  my  eyes  to  thine  after  the 
avowal  of  the  injustice  I have  done  one  of  the  most  amiable  and 
loveliest  of  human  beings?’  ‘Oh!  tell  me,’ cried  Mortimer,  in 
breathless,  trembling  agitation,  ‘ tell  me  if,  indeed,  she  is  all  my 
fond  heart  once  believed  her  to  be?  In  mercy,  in  pity,  delay  not 
to  inform  me.’ 

Slowly,  in  consequence  of  his  weakness,  but  with  all  the  willing- 
ness of  a contrite  spirit,  anxious  to  do  justice  to  the  injured,  did 
Lord  Cherbury  reveal  all  that  had  passed  between  him  and 
Amanda.  ‘ Poor  Fitzalan  ! ’ cried  he,  as  he  finished  his  relation, 
‘ poor,  unhappy  friend ! From  thy  cold  grave,  couldst  thou  have 
known  the  transactions  of  this  world,  how  must  thy  good  and 
feeling  spirit  have  reproached  me  for  my  barbarity  to  thy  orphan 
in  robbing  her  of  the  only  stipend  thy  adverse  fortune  had 
power  to  leave  her — a pure  and  spotless  fame?  ’ 

Lord  Mortimer  groaned  with  anguish.  Every  reproachful 
word  he  had  uttered  to  Amanda  darted  upon  his  remembrance, 
and  were  like  so  many  daggers  to  his  heart.  It  was  his  father 
that  oppressed  her.  This  knowledge  aggravated  his  feelings, 
but  stifled  his  reproaches;  it  was  a father  contrite,  perhaps  at 
that  very  moment  stretched  upon  a deathbed,  therefore  he  for- 


490 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


gave  him.  He  cast  his  eyes  around,  as  if  in  that  moment  he  had 
hoped  to  behold  her,  have  an  opportunity  of  falling  prostrate  at 
her  feet  and  imploring  her  forgiveness.  He  cast  his  eyes  around, 
as  if  imagining  he  should  see  her,  and  be  allowed  to  fold  her  to 
his  beating  heart,  and  ask  her  soft  voice  to  pronounce  his  par- 
don. 

‘Oh!  thou  lovely  mourner,’ he  exclaimed  to  himself  while  a 
gush  of  sorrow  burst  from  his  eyes.  ‘ Oh ! thou  lovely  monrner, 
when  I censured,  reviled,  upbraided  you,  even  at  that  very 
period  your  heart  was  suffering  the  most  excruciating  anguish. 
Yes,  Amanda,  he  who  would  willingly  have  laid  down  life  to 
yield  thee  peace,  even  he  was  led  to  aggravate  thy  woes.  With 
what  gentleness,  what  unexampled  patience  didst  thou  bear  my 
reproaches ! No  sudden  ray  of  indignation  for  puritj^  so  insulted, 
innocence  so  arraigned,  flashed  from  thy  eyes;  the  beams  of 
meekness  and  resignation  alone  stole  from  underneath  their 
tearful  lids. 

‘ No  sweet  hope  of  being  able  to  atone,  no  delightful  idea  of 
being  able  to  make  reparation  for  my  injustice,  now  alleviates 
the  poignancy  of  my  feelings;  since  fate  interposed  between  us 
in  the  hour  of  prosperity,  I cannot,  in  the  bleak  and  chilling 
period  of  adversity,  seek  to  unite  your  destiny  with  mine.  Now 
almost  the  child  of  want  myself,  a soldier  of  fortune,  obliged  by 
the  sword  to  earn  my  bread,  I cannot  think  of  leading  you  into 
difficulties  and  dangers  greater  than  you  ever  before  experienced. 
Oh!  my  Amanda,  may  the  calm  shade  of  security  be  forever 
thine ; thy  Mortimer,  thy  ever-faithful,  ever-adoring  Mortimer, 
will  not,  from  any  selfish  consideration,  seek  to  lead  thee  from  it. 
If  thy  loss  be  agonizing,  oh  ! how  much  more  agonizing  to  possess 
but  to  see  thee  in  danger  or  distress.  I will  go,  then,  into  new 
scenes  of  life  with  only  thy  dear,  thy  sweet,  and  worshiped 
idea  to  cheer  and  support  me — an  idea  I shall  lose  but  with  life, 
and  which  to  know  I may  cherish,  indulge,  adore,  without  a 
reproach  from  reason  for  weakness  in  so  doing,  is  a sweet  and 
soothing  consolation.’ 

The  indulgence  of  feelings  such  as  his  language  expressed,  ho 
was  obliged  to  forego,  in  order  to  fulfill  the  wish  he  felt  of  alle- 
viating the  situation  of  his  father;  but  his  attention  was  unable  to 
lighten  the  anguish  which  oppressed  the  mind  of  Lord  Cherbury; 
remorse  for  his  past  conduct,  mortification  at  being  lessened  in 
the  estimation  of  his  son,  sorrow  for  the  injury  he  was  com- 
pelled to  do  him,  to  be  extricated  from  the  power  of  Freelove, 
all  preyed  upon  his  mind,  and  produced  the  most  violent  agita- 
tions, and  an  alarming  repetition  of  fits. 

Things  remained  in  this  situation  for  a few  days,  during  which 
time  no  intelligence  had  been  received  of  Euphrasia,  when  one 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


491 


morning,  as  Lord  Mortimer  was  sitting  for  a few  minutes  with 
the  marquis  and  marchioness,  a servant  entered  the  apartment, 
and  informed  his  lord  that  a gentleman  had  just  arrived  at  the 
castle,  who  requested  to  be  introduced  to  his  presence.  The 
marquis  and  marchioness  instantly  concluded  this  was  some  per- 
son sent  as  an  intercessor  from  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  they  in- 
stantly admitted  him,  in  order  to  have  an  opportunity  of  assur- 
ing her  ladyship,  through  his  means,  it  must  be  some  time  (if 
:*ndeed  at  all)  ere  they  could  possibly  forgive  her  disrespect  and 
disobedience.  j^Lord  Mortimer  would  have  retired,  but  was 
requested  to  stay,  and  complied,  prompted  indeed  by  curiosity 
to  hear  what  kind  of  apology  or  message  Lady  Euphrasia 
had  sent.  A man  of  a most  pleasing  appearance  entered, 
and  jwas  received  with  the  most  frigid  politeness.  He  looked 
embarrassed,  agitated,  even  distressed.  He  attempted  several 
times  to  speak,  but  the  words  still  died  away  undistinguished. 
At  length  the  marchioness,  yielding  to  the  natural  impetuosity 
of  her  soul,  hastily  desired  he  would  reveal  what  had  procured 
th^i  the  honor  of  his  visit. 

‘ A circumstance  of  the  most  unhappy  nature,  madam,’ he  re- 
plied in  a hesitating  voice.  ‘ I came  with  the  hope,  the  expecta- 
tion of  being  able  to  break  it  by  degrees,  so  as  not  totally  to  over- 
power; but  I find  myself  unequal  to  the  distressing  task.’  ‘I 
fancy,  sir,’ cried  the  marchioness,  ‘both  the  marquis  and  I are 
already  aware  of  the  circumstance  you  allude  to.’  ‘Alas! 
madam,’  said  the  stranger,  fixing  his  eyes  with  a mournful  ear- 
nestness on  her  face,  ‘ I cannot  think  so.  If  you  were,  it  would 
not  be  in  human,  in  parent  nature  to  appear  as  you  now  do.’ 
He  stopped,  he  turned  pale,  he  trembled,  his  emotions  became 
contagious. 

‘ Tell  me,  ’ said  the  marquis,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  ‘ I 
beseech  you,  without  delay,  the  meaning  of  your  words.’ 

The  stranger  essayed  to  speak,  but  could  not;  words  indeed 
were  scarcely  necessary  to  declare  that  he  had  something  shock- 
ing to  reveal.  His  auditors,  like  old  Northumberland,  might 
have  said,  ‘ The  paleness  on  thy  cheek  is  apter  than  thy  tongiae 
to  tell  thy  errand.’  ‘Something  dreadful  has  happened  to  my 
child,’  said  the  marchioness,  forgetting  in  that  agonizing  moment 
all  displeasure.  ‘ Alas,  madam ! ’ cried  the  stranger,  while  a 
trickling  tear  denoted  his  sensibility  for  the  sorrows  he  was  about 
giving  rise  to.  ‘ Alas,  madam  I your  fears  are  too  well  founded  ; 
to  torture  you  with  longer  suspense  would  be  barbarity.  Some- 
thing dreadful  has  happened,  indeed — Lady  Euphrasia  in  this 
world  will  never  more  be  sensible  of  your  kindness.’  A wild,  a 
piercing,  agonizing  shriek  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  marchioness, 
as  she  dropped  senseless  from  her  seat.  The  marquis  was  sinking 


492 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


from  his,  had  not  Lord  Mortimer,  who  sat  by  him,  timely  started 
np,  and,  though  trembling  himself  with  horror,  caught  him  in 
his  arms.  The  servants  were  summoned,  the  still  insensible 
marchioness  was  carried  to  her  chamber;  the  wretched  marquis^ 
reviving  in  a few  minutes — if  that  could  be  called  reviving,  which 
was  only  a keener  perception  of  misery — demanded,  in  a tone  of 
anguish,  the  whole  particulars  of  the  sad  event.  Yet  scarcely 
had  the  stranger  begun  to  comply  with  his  request,  ere,  with  all 
the  wild  inconsistency  of  grief,  he  made  him  forebear,  and,  shud- 
dering, declared  he  could  not  listen  to  the  dreadful  particulars. 
But  it  were  needless,  as  well  as  impossible,  to  describe  the  feelings 
of  the  wretched  parents,  who  in  one  moment  beheld  their  hopes, 
their  wishes,  their  expectations,  finally  destroyed.  Oh ! what  an 
awful  lesson  did  they  inculcate  of  the  instability  of  human  happi- 
ness, of  the  insufficiency  of  rank  or  riches  to  retain  it.  This  was 
one  of  the  events  which  Providence,  in  its  infinite  wisdom,  makes 
use  of  to  arrest  the  thoughtless  in  their  career  of  dissipation,  and 
check  the  arrogance  of  pride  and  vanity.  When  we  behold  the 
proud,  the  wealthy,  the  illustrious,  suddenly  surprised  by  calam- 
ity, and  sinking  beneath  its  stroke,  we  naturally  reflect  on  the 
frail  tenure  of  earthly  possessions,  and,  from  the  reflection,  con- 
sider how  we  may  best  attain  that  happiness  which  cannot  change. 
The  human  heart  is  in  general  so  formed  as  to  require  something 
great  and  striking  to  interest  and  affect  it.  Thus  a similar  mis- 
fortune happening  to  a person  in  a conspicuous,  and  to  one  in  an 
obscure  situation,  would  not  in  all  probability  equally  affect  or 
call  home  the  wandering  thoughts  to  sadness  and  reflection.  The 
humble  floweret,  trampled  to  the  dust,  is  passed  with  an  eye  of . 
careless  indifference;  but  the  proud  oak  torn  from  the  earth,  and 
leveled  by  the  storm,  is  viewed  with  wonder  and  affright.  The 
horrors  of  the  blow  which  overwhelmed  the  marquis  and  mar- 
chioness were  augmented  ^by  the  secret  whispers  of  conscience, 
that  seemed  to  say  it  was  a blow  of  retribution  from  a Being  all 
righteous  and  all  just,  whose  most  sacred  laws  they  had  violated, 
in  oppressing  the  widow  and  defrauding  the  orphan.  Oh,  what 
an  augmentation  of  misery  to  think  it  merited!  Remorse,  like 
the  vengeance  of  Heaven,  seemed  now  awakened  to  sleep  no  more. 
No  longer  could  they  palliate  their  conduct,  no  longer  avoid  re- 
trospection— a retrospection  which  heightened  the  gloomy  horrors 
of  the  future.  In  Lady  Euphrasia,  all  the  hopes  and  affections 
of  the  marquis  and  marchioness  were  centered.  She  alone  had 
ever  made  them  feel  the  tenderness  of  humanity,  yet  she  was  not 
less  the  darling  of  their  love  than  the  idol  of  their  pride.  . In  her 
they  beheld  the  being  who  was  to  support  the  honors  of  their 
house,  and  transmit  their  names  to  posterity.  In  her  they  beheld 
the  being  who  gave  them  an  opportunity  of  gratifying  the  malev* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


493 


olent,  as  well  as  the  tender  and  ambitious  passions  of  their  souls. 
The  next  heir  to  the  marquis’s  title  and  fortune  had  irreconcilably 
disobliged  him.  As  a means,  therefore,  of  disappointing  him,  if 
on  no  other  account,  Lady  Euphrasia  would  have  been  regarded 
by  them.  Though  she  had  disappointed  and  displeased  them  by 
her  recent  act  of  disobedience,  and  though  they  had  deemed  it  es- 
sential to  their  consequence  to  display  that  displeasure,  yet  they 
secretly  resolved  not  long  to  withhold  forgiveness  from  her,  and 
also  to  take  immediate  steps  for  ennobling  Freelove. 

For  Lady  Euphrasia  they  felt  indeed  a tenderness  her  heart 
for  them  was  totally  a stranger  to.  It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if, 
cold  and  indifPerent  to  all  mankind,  their  affections  were  stronger 
for  being  confined  in  one  channel.  In  the  step  she  had  taken, 
Lady  Euphrasia  only  considered  the  gratification  of  her  revenge. 
Freelove,  as  the  ward  of  Lord  Cherbury,  in  honor  to  him,  had 
been  invited  to  the  nuptials.  He  accepted  the  invitation,  but, 
instead  of  accompanying,  promised  to  follow  the  bridal  party  to 
the  castle.  A day  or  two  ere  he  intended  setting  out,  by  some 
accidental  chance  he  got  into  company  with  the  very  person  to 
whom  Lord  Cherbury  had  lost  so  much,  and  on  whose  account 
he  had  committed  an  action  which  had  entailed  the  most  excru- 
ciating remorse  upon  him.  This  person  was  acquainted  with  the 
whole  transaction.  He  had  promised  to  keep  his  knowledge  a 
secret,  but  the  promises  of  the  worthless  are  of  little  avail.  A 
slight  expression,  which,  in  a moment  of  anxiety,  had  involun- 
tarily dropped  from  Lord  Cherbury,  had  stung  him  to  the  soul, 
because  he  knew  too  well  its  justice,  and  inspired  him  with  the 
most  inveterate  hatred  and  rancorous  desire  of  revenge.  His 
unexpectedly  meeting  Freelove  afforded  him  an  opportunity  of 
g^ratifying  both  these  propensities,  and  he  scrupled  not  to 
avail  himself  of  it.  Freelove  was  astonished,  and,  when  the  first 
violence  of  astonishment  was  over,  delighted. 

To  triumph  over  the  proud  soul  of  Lord  Cherbury  and  his  son, 
was  indeed  an  idea  which  afford  rapture.  Both  he  had  ever 
-disliked,  the  latter  particularly.  He  disliked  him  from  the 
superiority  which  he  saw  in  every  respect  he  possessed  over 
himself.  A stranger  to  noble  emulation,  he  sought  not,  by  study 
or  imitation,  to  aspire  to  any  of  those  graces  or  perfections  he 
beheld  in  Lord  Mortimer.  He  sought  alone  to  depreciate  them 
and,  when  he  found  that  impossible,  beheld  him  with  greater 
envy  and  malignity  than  ever.  To  wound  Lord  Mortimer 
through  the  bosom  of  his  father,  to  overwhelm  him  with  confu- 
sion by  publicly  displaying  the  error  of  that  father,  were  ideas 
of  the  most  exquisite  delight — ideas  which  the  wealth  of  worlds 
would  scarcely  have  tempted  him  to  forego — so  sweet  is  any 
triumph,  however  accidental  or  imaginary,  over  a noble  objecti 


494 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


to  an  envious  mind,  which  ever  hates  that  excellence  it  cannot 
reach.  No  fear  of  self-interest  being*  injured  checked  his  pleasure. 
The  fortune  of  Lord  Cherbury  he  knew  was  sufficient  to  answer  for 
his  violated  trust.  Thus  had  he  another  source  of  triumph  in  the 
prospect  of  having  those  so  long  considered  as  the  proud  rivals  of 
his  wealth  and  splendor  cast  into  the  shade.  His  pleasure,  however^ 
from  this  idea,  was  short  lived,  when  he  reflected  that  Lord  Morti=- 
mer’s  union  with  Lady  Euphrasia  would  totally  exempt  him  from 
feelingany  inconvenience  from  his  father’s  conduct.  But  could  not 
this  union  be  prevented?  Freelove  asked  himself.  He  still  wanted 
a short  period  of  being  of  age,  consequently  had  noright,  at  pres- 
ent, to  demand  a settlement  of  his  affairs  from  Lord  Cherbury. 
He  might,  however  privately  inform  Lady  Euphrasia  of  the 
affair  so  recently  communicated  to  him.  No  sooner  did  he 
conceive  this  scheme,  than  he  glowed  with  impatience  to  put  it 
into  execution.  He  hastened  to  the  marquis’s,  whither,  indeed, 
the  extravagant  and  foppish  preparations  he  had  made  for  the 
projected  nuptials  had  before  prevented  his  going,  and  took  the 
first  opportunity  which  offered  of  revealing  to  Lady  Euphrasia, 
as  if  from  the  purest  friendship,  the  conduct  of  Lord  Cherbury, 
and  the  derangement  of  his  affairs. 

Lady  Euphrasia  was  at  once  surprised  and  incensed.  The 
reason  for  a union  between  her  and  his  son  being  so  ardently 
desired  by  Lord  Cherbury,  was  now  fully  explained,  and  she  be- 
held herself  as  an  object  addressed  merely  from  a view  of  repair- 
ing a ruined  fortune  ; but  this  view  she  resolved  to  disappoint. 
Such  was  the  implacable  nature  of  her  disposition,  that  had  this 
disappointment  occasioned  the  destruction  of  her  own  peace,  it 
would  not  have  made  her  relinquish  it.  But  this  was  not  the 
case.  In  sacrificing  all  ideas  of  a union  with  Lord  Mortimer  to 
her  offended  pride  she  sacrificed  no  wish  or  inclination  of  her 
soul.  Lord  Mortimer,  though  the  object  of  her  admiration,  had 
never  been  the  object  of  her  love.  She  was,  indeed,  incapable  of 
feeling  that  passion.  Her  admiration  had,  however,  long  since 
given  place  to  resentment,  at  the  cool  indifference  with  which  he 
regarded  her.  She  would  have  opposed  a marriage  with  him, 
but  for  fear  that  he  might,  thus  freed,  attach  himself  to  Amanda. 
The  moment,  however,  she  knew  a union  with  her  was  necessary 
for  the  establishment  of  his  fortune,  fear,  with  every  considera- 
tion which  could  oppose  it,  vanished  before  the  idea  of  disap- 
pointing his  views,  and  retaliating  upon  him  'that  uneasiness  he 
iiad,  from  wounded  pride,  made  her  experience  by  his  cold  and 
■•inalterable  behavior  to  her. 

She  at  first  determined  to  acquaint  the  marquis  of  what  she  had 
Beard,  but  a little  reflection  made  her  drop  this  determination. 
He  had  always  professed  a warm  regard  for  Lord  Clierbury.  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


495 


she  feared  that  regard  would  still  lead  him  to  insist  on  the  nuptials 
taking  place.  She  was  not  long  in  concerting  a scheme  to  render 
such  a measure  impracticable,  and  Freelove  she  resolved  to  make 
an  instrument  for  forwarding,  or  rather  executing  her  revenge. 
She  hesitated  not  to  say  she  had  always  disliked  Lord  Mortimer  ; 
that,  in  short,  there  was  but  one  being  she  could  ever  think,  ever 
hope  to  be  happy  with.  Her  broken  sentences,  her  looks,  her  af  - 
fected confusion,  all  revealed  to  Freelove  that  he  was  that  object. 
The  rapture  this  discovery  inspired  he  could  not  conceal.  The^ 
flattering  expressions  of  Lady  Euphrasia  were  repaid  by  the  most 
extravagant  compliments,  the  warmest  professions,  the  strongest 
assurances  of  never-dying  love.  This  soon  led  to  what  she  desired, 
and,  in  a short  space,  an  elopement  was  agreed  to,  and  everything 
relative  to  it  settled.  Freelove’s  own  servants  and  equipage  were 
at  the  castle,  and  consequently  but  little  difficulty  attended  the 
arrangement  of  their  plan.  In  Lady  Euphrasia's  eyes  Freelove 
had  no  other  value  than  what  he  now  merely  derived  from  bein^ 
an  instrument  in  gratifying  the  haughty  and  revengeful  passions 
of  her  nature.  She  regarded  him,  indeed,  with  sovereign  con- 
tempt  ; his  fortune,  however,  she  knew  would  give  him  conse- 
quence in  the  world,  and  she  was  convinced  she  should  find  him 
quite  that  easy,  convenient  husband  which  a woman  of  fashion 
finds  so  necessary  ; in  short,  she  looked  forward  to  being  the  un- 
controlled mistress  of  her  own  actions,  and  without  a doubt  but 
that  she  should  meet  many  objects  as  deserving  of  her  admiration, 
and  infinitely  more  grateful  for  it,  than  ever  Lord  Mortimer  had 
been. 

Flushed  with  such  a pleasing  prospect,  she  quitted  the  castle — 
that  castle  she  was  destined  never  more  to  see.  At  the  moment, 
the  very  moment,  she  smiled  with  joy  and  expectation,  the  slia,ft 
the  unerring  shaft,  was  raised  against  her  breast. 

The  marriage  ceremony  over,  they  hastened  to  the  vicinity  or 
the  castle,  in  order  to  send  an  apologizing  letter,  as  usual  on  such 
occasions.  The  night  was  dark  and  dreary,  the  road  rugged  an  i 
dangerous  ; the  postilions  ventured  to  say  it  would  be  better  to 
halt  for  the  night,  but  this  was  opposed  by  Lady  Euphrasia. 
They  were  within  a few  miles  of  the  destined  termination  of  their 
journey,  and,  pursuant  to  her  commands,  they  proceeded.  In  a 
few  minutes  after  this,  the  horses,  startled  by  a sudden  light  which 
gleamed  across  the  path,  began  plunging  in  the  most  alarming 
manner.  A frightful  precipice  lay  on  one  side,  and  the  horses, 
in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  the  postilions,  continued  to  approach  it. 
Freelove,  in  this  dreadful  moment,  lost  all  consideration  but  for 
himself  ; he  burst  open  the  chariot  door,  and  leaped  into  the  road. 
His  companion  was  unable  to  follow  his  example  ; she  had  fail] ted 
at  the  first  intimation  of  danger.  The  postilions  with  diflicultw 


496 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


dismounted.  The  other  servants  came  to  their  assistance,  and  en* 
deavored  to  restrain  the  horses  ; every  effort  was  useless,  they 
broke  from  their  hold,  and  plunged  down  the  precipice.  The  ser* 
vants  had  heard  the  chariot  door  open  ; they  therefore  concluded, 
for  it  was  too  dark  to  see,  that  both  their  master  and  Lady 
Euphrasia  were  safe.  But  who  can  describe  their  horror,  when  a 
loud  shriek  from  him  declared  her  situation  ? Some  of  them  im- 
mediately hastened,  as  fast  as  their  trembling  limbs  could  carry 
them,  to  the  house  adjoining  the  road,  from  whence  the  fatal 
light  had  gleamed  which  caused  the  sad  catastrophe.  They  re- 
vealed it  in  a few  words,  and  implored  immediate  assistance.  The 
master  of  the  house  was  a man  of  the  greatest  humanity.  He 
was  inexpressibly  shocked  at  what  he  had  heard,  and  joined  him- 
self in  giving  the  assistance  that  was  desired.  With  lanterns  they 
proceeded  down  a winding  path  cut  in  the  precipice,  and  soon 
discovered  the  objects  of  their  search.  The  horses  were  already 
dead — the  chariot  was  shattered  to  pieces.  They  took  up  some  of 
the  fragments,  and  discovered  beneath  them  the  lifeless  body  of 
the  unfortunate  Lady  Euphrasia.  The  stranger  burst  into  tears 
at  the  sight  of  so  much  horror  ; and,  in  a voice  scarcely  audible, 
gave  orders  for  her  being  conveyed  to  his  house.  But  when  a 
better  light  gave  a more  perfect  view  of  the  mangled  remains,  all 
acknowledged  that,  since  so  fatal  an  accident  had  befallen  her, 
Heaven  was  merciful  in  taking  a life  whose  continuance  would 
have  made  her  endure  the  most  excruciating  tortures. 

Freelove  was  now  inquired  for.  He  had  fainted  on  the  road, 
but  in  a few  minutes  after  he  was  brought  in,  recovered  his 
senses,  and  the  first  use  he  made  of  them  was  to  inquire  whether 
he  was  dead  or  alive.  Upon  receiving  the  comfortable  assurance 
■of  the  latter,  he  congratulated  himself,  in  a manner  so  warm, 
upon  his  escape,  as  plainly  proved  self  was  his  whole  and  sole 
consideration.  No  great  preparations,  on  account  of  his  feelings, 
were  requisite  to  inform  him  of  the  fate  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  He 
shook  his  head  on  hearing  it ; said  it  was  what  he  already  guessed 
from  the  devilish  plunge  of  the  horses;  declared  it  was  a most 
unfortunate  affair,  and  expressed  a kind  of  terror  at  what  the 
marquis  might  say  to  it,  as  if  he  could  have  been  accused  of 
being  accessory  to  it. 

Mr.  Murray,  the  gentleman  whose  house  had  received  him, 
offered  to  undertake  the  distressing  task  of  breaking  the  affair  to 
Lady  Euphrasia’s  family,  an  offer  Freelove  gladly  accepted,  de- 
claring he  felt  himself  too  much  disordered  in  mind  and  body  to 
be  able  to  give  any  directions  relative  to  what  was  necessary  to 
be  done. 

How  Mr.  Murray  executed  his  task  is  already  known;  but 
it  was  long  ere  the  emotions  of  the  marquis  would  suffer  him  to 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  497 

say  he  wished  the  remains  of  Lady  Euphrasia  to  he  brought  to 
the  castle,  that  all  the  honors  due  to  her  birth  should  be  paid 
them.  This  was  accordingly  done;  and  the  castle,  so  lately 
ornamented  for  her  nuptials,  was  hung  with  black,  and  all  the 
pageantries  of  death. 

The  marquis  and  marchioness  confined  themselves,  in  the 
deepest  anguish,  to  their  apartments;  their  domestics,  filled  with 
terror  and  amazement,  glided  about  like  pale  specters,  and  ail 
was  a scene  of  solemnity  and  sadness.  Every  moment  Lord 
Mortimer  could  spare  from  his  father  he  devoted  to  the  marquis. 
Lady  Euphrasia  had  ever  been  an  object  of  indifference,  nay,  of 
dislike  to  him ; but  the  manner  of  her  death,  notwithstanding, 
shocked  him  to  the  soul ; his  dislike  was  forgotten ; he  thought 
of  her  only  with  pity  and  compassion,  and  the  tears  he  mingled 
with  the  marquis  were  the  tears  of  unfeigned  sympathy  and 
regret. 

Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  were  equally  attentive  to  the 
marchioness ; the  time  not  spent  with  Lord  Cherbury  was  de- 
voted to  her.  They  used  not  unavailing  arguments  to  conquer  a 
grief  which  nature,  as  her  rightful  tribute,  demands;  but  they 
soothed  that  grief  by  showing  they  sincerely  mourned  its 
source. 

Lord  Cherbury  had  but  short  intervals  of  reason ; those  inter- 
vals were  employed  by  Lord  Mortimer  in  trying  to  compose  his 
mind ; and  by  him  in  blessing  his  son  for  those  endeavors,  and 
congratulating  himself  on  the  prospect  of  approaching  dissolution. 
His  words  unutterably  affected  Lord  Mortimer;  he  had  reason  to 
believe  they  were  dictated  by  a prophetic  spirit;  and  the  dismal 
peal  which  rung  from  morning  till  night  for  Lady  Euphrasia 
sounded  in  his  ear  as  the  knell  of  his  expiring  father. 

Things  were  in  this  situation  in  the  castle  when  Oscar  and 
his  friend  Sir  Charles  Bingley  arrived  at  it,  and,  without  send- 
ing in  their  names,  requested  immediate  permission  to  the 
marquis’s  presence,  upon  business  of  importance.  Their  request 
was  complied  with,  from  an  idea  that  they  came  from  Freelove, 
to  whom  the  marquis  and  marchioness, from  respect  and  affection 
to  the  memory  of  their  daughter,  had  determined  to  pay  every 
attention. 

The  marquis  knew,  and  was  personally  known  to  Sir  Charles; 
he  was  infinitely  surprised  by  his  appearance,  but  how  much 
was  that  surprise  increased  when  Sir  Charles,  taking  Oscar  by 
the  hand,  presented  him  to  the  marquis  as  the  son  of  Lady  Fitz- 
alan,  the  rightful  heir  of  the  Earl  of  Dunreath  ! The  marquis 
was  confounded;  he  trembled  at  these  words;  and  his  confusion, 
had  such  a testimony  been  wanting,  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  prove  his  guilt  He  at  last,  though  with  a faltering  voices 


498 


THE  CHILD-IEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


desired  to  know  by  what  means  Sir  Charles  could  justify  or 
support  his  assertion. 

Sir  Charles,  for  Oscar  was  too  much  agitated  to  speak,  as 
briefly  as  possible  related  all  the  particulars  which  had  led  to  the 
discovery  of  the  earl’s  will ; and  his  friend,  he  added,  with  the 
generosity  of  a noble  mind,  wished  as  much  as  possible  to  spare 
the  feelings  and  save  the  honor  of  those  with  whom  he  was  con- 
nected; a wish  which  nothing  but  a hesitation  in  complying 
with  his  just  and  well  supported  claim  could  destroy. 

The  marquis  s agitation  increased;  already  was  he  stripped  of 
happiness,  and  he  now  saw  himself  on  the  point  of  being  stripped 
of  honor.  An  hour  before  he  had  imagined  his  wretchedness 
could  not  be  augmented ; he  was  now  convinced  human  misery 
cannot  be  complete  without  the  loss  of  reputation.  In  the  idea  of 
being  esteemed,  of  being  thought  undeserving  our  misfortunes, 
there  is  a sweet,  a secret  balm,  which  meliorates  the  greatest 
sorrow.  Of  riches,  in  his  own  right,  the  marquis  ever  possessed 
more  than  sufficient  for  all  his  expenses ; those  expenses  would 
now,  comparatively  speaking,  be  reduced  within  very  narrow 
bounds;  for  the  vain  pride  which  had  led  him  to  delight  in  pomp 
and  ostentation  died  with  Lady  Euphrasia.  Since,  therefore,  of 
his  fortune  such  a superabundance  would  remain,  it  was  un- 
necessary as  well  as  unjust  to  detain  what  he  had  no  pretensions 
to;  but  he  feared  tamely  acquiescing  to  this  unexpected  claim, 
would  be  to  acknowledge  himself  a villain.  ’Tis  true,  indeed, 
that  his  newly  felt  remorse  had  inspired  him  with  a wish  of 
making  reparation  for  his  past  injustice,  but  false  shame,  starting 
up,  hitherto  opposed  it  ; and  even  now,  when  an  opportunity 
offered  of  accomplishing  his  wish,  still  continued  to  oppose  it, 
lest  the  scorn  and  contempt  he  dreaded  should  at  length  be  his 
portion  for  his  long  injustice. 

Irresolute  how  to  act,  he  sat  for  sometime  silent  and  embar- 
rassed, till  at  last,  recollecting  his  manner  was  probably  betray- 
ing what  he  wished  to  conceal,  namely,  the  knowledge  of  the 
will,  he  said,  with  some  sternness,  ‘ That,  till  he  inspected  into  tli^ 
affair  so  recently  laid  before  him,  he  could  not,  nor  was  it  to  be 
expected  he  should,  say  how  he  would  act;  an  inspection  which, 
under  present  melancholy  circumstances,  he  could  not  possibly 
make  for  some  time.  Had  Mr.  Fitzalan,’  he  added,  ‘ possessed 
in  reality  that  generosity  Sir  Charles’s  partially  ascribed  to  him, 
he  would  not,  at  a period  so  distressing,  have  appeared  to  make 
such  a claim.  To  delicacy  and  sensibility  the  privileges  of  grief 
were  ever  held  sacred.  Those  privileges  they  had  both  violated. 
They  had  intruded  on  his  sorrows ; they  had  even  insulted  him  by 
appearing  on  such  a business  before  him,  ere  the  last  rites  v/ere 
paid  to  his  lamented  child-’  S‘r  Charles  and  Oscar  were  inex* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


499 


pressibly  shocked.  Both  were  totally  ignorant  of  the  recent 
event. 

Oscar,  as  he  recovered  from  the  surprise  the  marquis’s  words 
had  given  him,  declared,  in  the  impassioned  language  of  a noble 
mind,  hurt  by  being  thought  destitute  of  sensibility,  ‘ That  the 
marquis  had  arraigned  him  unjustly.  Had  he  known  of  his 
sorrows,’  he  said,  ‘ nothing  should  have  tempted  him  to  intrude 
upon  them.  He  mourned,  he  respected  them;  he  besought  him 
to  believe  him  sincere  in  what  he  uttered.’  A tear,  an  involun- 
tary tear,  as  he  spoke, [starting  into  his  eye,  and  trickling  down 
his  cheek,  denoted  his  sincerity.  The  marquis’s  heart  smote  him 
as  he  beheld  this  tear ; it  reproached  him  more  than  the  keenest 
words  could  have  done,  and  operated  more  in  Oscar’s  favor  than 
any  arguments,  however  eloquent.  ‘ Had  this  young  man,’ 
thought  he,  ‘ been  really  illiberal  when  I reproached  him  for 
want  of  sensibility,  how  well  might  he  have  retaliated  upon  me 
my  more  flagrant  want  of  justice  and  humanity;  but  no,  he  sees  I 
am  a son  of  sorrow,  and  he  will  not  break  the  reed  which  Heaven 
has  already  smitten.’  Tears  gushed  from  his  eyes.  He  involun- 
tarily  extended  his  hand  to  Oscar.  ‘ I see,’  said  he,  ‘ I see,  indeed, 
I have  unjustly  arraigned  you;  but  I will  endeavor  to  atone  for 
my  error.  At  present,  rest  satisfied  with  an  assurance,  that  what- 
ever  is  equitable  shall  be  done ; and  that,  let  events  turn  out  as 
they  may,  I shall  ever  feel  myself  your  friend.’  Oscar  again  ex- 
pressed his  regret  for  having  waited  on  him  at  such  a period,  and 
requested  he  would  dismiss  for  the  present  the  subject  they  had 
been  talking  of  from  his  mind.  The  marquis,  still  more  pleased 
with  his  manner,  desired  his  direction,  and  assured  him  he  should 
hear  from  him  sooner  than  he  expected. 

As  soon  as  they  retired,  his  agitation  decreased,  and,  of  course- 
he  was  better  qualified  to  consider  how  he  should  act.  That  res^ 
tition  his  conscience  prompted,  but  his  false  ideas  of  shame  had 
prevented,  he  now  found  he  should  be  compelled  to  make;  how 
to  make  it,  therefore,  so  as  to  avoid  total  disgrace,  was  what  he- 
considered.  At  last  he  adopted  a scheme,  which  the  sensibility  Cii 
Oscar,  he  flattered  himself,  would  enable  him  to  accomplish. 
This  was  to  declare,  that  by  the  Earl  of  Dunreath’s  will  Mr.  Fitz- 
alan  was  heir  to  his  estates  in  case  of  the  death  of  Lady  Euphra- 
sia ; that  in  consequence,  therefore,  of  this  event,  he  had  come  to 
take  possession  of  them ; that  Lady  Dunreath  (whose  residence  at 
Dunreath  Abbey  he  could  not  now  hope  to  conceal)  was  but  lately 
returned  from  a convent  in  France,  where  for  many  years  she 
had  resided.  To  Oscar  he  intended  saying,  from  her  ill  conduct  he 
and  the  marchioness  had  been  tempted  to  sequester  her  from  the 
world,  in  order  to  save  her  from  open  shame  and  derision  ; and 
that  her  declaration  of  a will  they  had  always  believed  the  mere 


500 


Tr"S  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


fabrication  of  her  brain,  in  order,  as  he  supposed,  to  give  them 
nneiasiness.  This  scheme  once  formed,  his  heart  felt  a little  re- 
lieved of  the  heavy  burden  of  fear  and  inquietude.  He  repaired 
to  the  marchioness’s  apartment,  and  broke  the  affair  gently  to  her, 
adding  at  the  same  time,  that  sensible  as  they  must  now  be  of  the 
vanities  and  pursuits  of  human  life  it  was  time  for  them  to  en- 
deavor to  make  their  peace  with  Heaven.  Affliction  had  taught 
penitence  to  the  marchioness,  as  well  as  her  husband.  She  ap- 
proved of  his  scheme,  and  thought,  with  him,  that  the  sooner 
their  intention  of  making  restitution  was  known  the  greater  would 
be  the  probability  of  its  being  accomplished.  Oscar,  therefore,  the 
next  day  received  a letter  from  the  marquis,  specifying  at  once 
his  wishes.  With  those  wishes  Oscar  generously  complied.  His 
noble  soul  was  superior  to  a triumph  over  a fallen  enemy ; and 
he  had  always  wished  rather  to  save  from,  than  expose  the  mar- 
quis to  disgrace.  He  hastened  as  soon  as  possible  to  the  castle, 
agreeably  to  a request  contained  in  the  letter,  to  assure  the  mar- 
quis his  conduct  throughout  the  whole  affair  would  be  regulated 
according  to  his  desire. 

Perhaps,  at  this  moment,  public  contempt  could  not  have  hum- 
bled the  marquis  more  than  such  generosity,  when  he  drew  acorn  ' 
parison  between  himself  and  the  person  he  had  so  long  injured. 
The  striking  contrast  wounded  his  very  soul,  and  he  groaned  at 
the  degradation  he  suffered  in  his  own  eyes.  He  told  Oscar,  as 
soon  as  the  last  sad  duties  were  performed  to  his  daughter,  he 
would  settle  everything  with  him,  and  then  perhaps  be  able  to  in- 
troduce him  to  the  marchioness.  He  desired  he  might  take  up  his 
residence  in  the  castle,  and  expressed  a wish  that  he  would  at- 
tend the  funeral  of  Lady  Euphrasia  as  one  of  the  chief  mourners. 
Oscar  declined  the  former,  but  promised,  with  a faltering  voice, 
to  comply  with  the  latter  request.  He  then  retired,  and  the  mar- 
quis, who  had  been  roused  from  the  indulgence  of  his  grief  by  a 
v^ish  of  preserving  his  character,  again  relapsed  into  its  wretched- 
ness. He  desired  Oscar  to  make  no  secret  of  his  now  being  heir 
to  the  Earl  of  Dunreath,  and  said  he  would  mention  it  himself  in 
his  family.  Through  this  medium,  therefore,  did  this  surprising 
intelligence  reach  Lord  Mortimer,  and  liis  heart  dilated  with  sud- 
defi  joy  at  the  idea  of  his  Amanda  and  her  brother  at  last  enjoy- 
ing independence  and  prosperity. 

In  a few  hours  after  this  the  sufferings  of  Lord  Cherbury  were 
terminated.  His  last  faltering  accents  pronounced  blessings  on 
his  son.  Oh,  how  sweet  were  those  blessings  ! How  different 
were  the  feelings  of  Lord  Mortimer  from  the  callous  sons  of  dissi- 
pation, who  seem  to  watch  with  impatience  the  last  struggles  of  a 
parent,  that  they  may  have  more  extensive  means  of  gratifying 
their  inordinate  desires.  The  feelings  of  Lord  Mortimer  were 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


501 


soothed  by  reflecting  he  had  done  everything  in  his  power  for  re* 
storing  the  tranquillity  of  his  father,  and  his  regret  was  lessened 
by  the  conviction  that  Lord  Cherbury,  after  the  discovery  of  his 
conduct,  could  never  more  in  this  life  have  experienced  happiness. 
He  therefore,  with  tender  piety,  resigned  him  to  his  God;  hum- 
bly trusting  that  his  penitence  had  atoned  for  his  frailties,  and  in- 
sured him  felicity. 

He  now  bade  adieu  to  the  castle  and  its  wretched  owners,  and 
accompanied  Lady  Martha  and  his  sister  to  Thornbury,  at  which 
the  burying-place  of  the  family  lay.  Here  he  continued  till  the 
remains  of  his  father  arrived,  and  were  interred.  He  then  pro- 
ceeded to  London  to  put  into  execution  the  plan  he  had  projected 
for  his  father.  He  immediately  advertised  the  Tudor  estate.  A 
step  of  this  kind  could  not  be  concealed  from  Lady  Martha  ; but 
the  mortgages  on  the  other  estates  he  resolved  carefully  to  guard 
from  her  knowledge,  lest  suspicions  prejudicial  to  the  memory  of 
his  father  should  arise  in  her  mind.  But,  during  this  period,  the 
idea  of  Amanda  was  not  absent  from  his  soul.  Neither  grief  nor 
business  could  banish  it  a moment  ; and,  again,  a thousand  fond 
and  flattering  hopes  concerning  her  had  revived,  when  a sudden 
blow  dispersed  them  all,  and  plunged  him,  if  possible,  into  greater 
wretchedness  than  he  had  ever  before  experienced.  He  heard  it 
confidently  reported  that  the  Earl  of  Dunreath’s  sister  (for  Oscar 
by  this  time  had  claimed,  and  been  allowed  to  take  the  title  of  his 
grandfather)  was  to  be  married  to  Sir  Charles  Bingley.  The  friend- 
ship which  he  knew  subsisted  between  the  earl  and  Sir  Charles 
rendered  this  too  probable.  But  if  a doubt  concerning  it  still  lin- 
gered in  his  mind,  it  was  destroyed  when  Sir  Charles  waited  on 
him  to  treat  about  the  purchase  of  Tudor  Hall ; it  instantly  oc- 
curred to  him  that  this  purchase  was  made  by  the  desire  of  Amanda. 
Unable  to  command  his  feelings,  he  referred  Sir  Charles  to  Ins 
agent,  and  abruptly  retired.  He  called  her  cruel  and  ungrateful. 
After  all  his  sufferings  on  her  account,  did  he  deserve  so  soon  to 
be  banished  from  her  remembrance — so  soon  supplanted  in  her 
affections  by  another — by  one,  too,  who  never  had,  who  never 
would  have,  an  opportunity  of  giving  such  proofs  as  he  had  done 
of  constancy  and  love.  She  is  lost,  then,  he  sighed;  she  is  lost 
forever  ! Oh  ! what  avails  the  vindication  of  her  fame  ? Is  it 
not  an  augmentation  of  my  misery  ? Oh,  my  father,  of  what  a 
treasure  did  you  despoil  me ! But  let  me  not  disturb  the  sacred 
ashes  of  the  dead— rest,  rest  in  peace,  thou  vulnerable  author  of 
my  being  ! and  may  the  involuntary  expression  of  heart-rending 
anguish  be  forgiven ! Amanda,  then,  he  continued,  after  a pause, 
will  indeed  be  mistress  of  Tudor  Hall ; but  never  will  a sigh  for 
him  who  once  was  its  owner  heave  her  bosom.  She  will  wander 
beneath  those  shades  where  so  often  she  has  heard  my  vows  of 


502 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


unalterable  love — vows  which,  alas!  my  heart  has  too  fully  ob* 
served— and  listen  to  similar  ones  from  Sir  Charles  : well,  this  is 
the  last  stroke  fate  can  level  at  my  peace. 

Lord  Mortimer  (or,  as  in  future,  we  must  style  him.  Lord 
Cherbury)  had  indeed  imagined  that  the  affections  of  Amanda, 
like  his  own,  were  unalterable  ; he  had  therefore  indulged  the 
rapturous  idea,  that,  by  again  seeking  a union  with  her,  she 
should  promote  the  happiness  of  both.  It  is  true  he  knew  she 
would  possess  a fortune  infinitely  superior  to  what  he  had  now  a 
right  to  expect  ; but  after  the  proofs  he  had  given  of  disinterested 
attachment,  not  only  she,  but  the  world,  he  was  convinced, 
would  acquit  him  of  any  selfish  motives  in  the  renewal  of  his  ad- 
dresses. His  hopes  destroyed — his  prospect  blasted  by  what  he 
had  heard,  he  resolved,  as  soon  as  affairs  were  settled,  to  go 
abroad.  The  death  of  his  father  had  rendered  his  entering  the 
army  unnecessary,  and  his  spirits  were  too  much  broken,  his 
health  too  much  impaired,  for  him  voluntarily  now  to  embrace 
that  destiny. 

On  the  purchase  of  Tudor  Hall  being  completed  by  Sir  Charles, 
it  was  necessary  for  Lord  Cherbury  to  see  his  steward.  He  pre- 
ferred going  to  sending  for  him,  prompted  indeed  by  a melan- 
choly wish  of  paying  a last  visit  to  Tudor  Hall,  endeared  to  his 
heart  by  a thousand  fond  remembrances.  On  his  arrival  he  took 
up  his  abode  at  the  steward’s  for  a day  or  two.  After  a strict  in- 
junction to  him  of  concealing  his  being  there,  it  was  after  a ramble 
through  every  spot  about  the  demesne  which  he  had  ever 
trodden  with  Amanda,  that  he  repaired  to  the  library  and  dis- 
covered her.  He  was  ignorant  of  her  being  in  the  country.  Oh ! 
then,  how  great  was  his  surprise — how  exquisite  his  emotions, 
at  seeing  her  in  such  unexpected  circumstances  ! 

I shall  not  attempt  to  go  over  the  scene  I have  already  tried  to 
describe ; suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  desire  she  betrayed  of  hasten- 
ing from  him  he  imputed  to  the  alteration  of  her  sentiments 
with  respect  to  him  and  Sir  Charles.  When  undeceived  in  this 
respect,  his  rapture  was  as  great  as  ever  it  had  before  been  at  the 
idea  of  her  love,  and,  like  Amanda,  he  declared  his  suffering 
was  now  amply  rewarded. 

CHAPTER  LVH. 

No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We’ll  live  and  love  so  true  ; 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 
Shall  break  thy  lover’s  too. 

‘ But,  my  love,  ’ cried  Lord  Cherbury,  as  he  wiped  away  the 
tears  which  pity  and  horror  at  the  fate  of  Lady  Euphrasia  had 
caused  Amanda  to  shed,  ‘ will  your  brother,  think  you,  sanction 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


503 


our  happiness  ? Will  he,  who  might  aspire  so  high  for  a sister 
"^hus  at  once  possessed  of  beauty  and  fortune,  bestow  her  on  one 
whose  title  may  now  almost  be  considered  an  empty  one  ? ^ 
^Oh  ! do  not  wrong  his  noble  nature  by  such  a doubt,’  exclaimed 
Amanda.  ‘ Yes,  with  pride,  with  pleasure,  with  delight,  will  he 
bestow  his  sister  upon  the  esteemed,  the  beloved  of  her  heart  ; 
upon  him,  who,  un warped  by  narrow  prejudice  or  selfish  in- 
terest, sought  her  in  the  low  shade  of  obscurity,  to  lay,  all  friend- 
less and  forlorn  as  she  was,  his  fortune  at  her  feet.  Could  he  indeed 
be  ungrateful  to  such  kindness,  could  he  attempt  to  influence  me 
to  another  choice,  my  Heart  would  at  once  repulse  the  effort  and 
avow  its  fixed  determination  ; but  he  is  incapable  of  such  con- 
duct ; my  Oscar  is  all  that  is  generous  and  feeling ; need  I say 
more,  that  a spirit  congenial  to  yours  animates  his  breast.  ’ 

Lord  Cherbury  clasped  her  to  his  heart.  ‘ Dearest,  loveliest  of 
human  beings,’  he  exclaimed,  ‘ shall  I at  length  call  you  mine  ? 
After  all  my  sorrows,  my  difficulties,  shall  I indeed  receive  so 
precious  a reward?  Oh!  wonder  not,  my  Amanda,  if  I doubt  the 
reality  of  so  sudden  a reverse  of  situation ; I feel  as  if  under  the 
influence  of  a happy  dream  ; but,  good  heaven  ! a dream  from 
which  I never  wish  to  be  awakened.’ 

Amanda  now  recollected  that  if  she  stayed  much  longer  from 
the  cottage  she  would  have  someone  coming  in  quest  of  her.  She 
informed  Lord  Cherbury  of  this,  and  rose  to  depart  ; but  he 
would  not  suffer  her  to  depart  alone,  neither  did  she  desire  it. 
The  nurse  and  her  daughter  Betsey  were  in  the  cottage  at  her 
return  to  it.  To  describe  the  surprise  of  the  former  at  the  ap- 
pearance of  Lord  Cherbury  is  impossible — a surprise  mingled 
with  indignation,  at  the  idea  of  his  falsehood  to  her  darling  child ; 
but  when  undeceived  in  that  respect,  her  transports  were  of  the 
most  extravagant  nature. 

‘Well,  she  thanked  Heaven,’ she  said,  ‘she  should  now  see 
her  dear  child  hold  up  her  head  again,  and  look  as  handsome  as 
ever.  Ay,  she  had  always  doubted,’  she  said,  ‘ that  his  lortship 
was  not  one  of  the  false-hearted  men  she  had  so  often  heard  her 
)ld  grandmother  talk  of.’  ‘ My  good  nurse,’  said  Lord  Cherbury 
runiling,  ‘ you  will  then  give  me  your  dear  child  with  all  your 
iieart?’  ‘Ay,  that  I will,  my  lort,’  she  replied,  ‘ and  this  very 
moment  too,  if  I could.’  ‘ Well,’  cried  Amanda,  ‘ his  lordship 
will  be  satisfied  at  present  with  getting  his  dinner  from  you.’ 
She  then  desired  the  things  to  be  brought  to  the  little  arbor,  al- 
ready described  at  the  beginning  of  this  book,  and  proceeded  to  it 
with  Lord  Cherbury.  The  mention  of  dinner  threw  nurse  and 
her  daughter  into  universal  commotion. 

‘Good  lack!  how  unfortunate  it  was  she  had  nothing  hot  or 
nice  to  lay  pefore  his  lortship!  How  could  she  think  he  could 


504 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


dine  upon  cold  lamb  and  salad!  Well,  this  was  all  Miss 
Amanda’s  fault,  who  would  never  let  her  do  as  she  wished/ 
With  the  utmost  diflBculty  she  was  persuaded  he  could  dine  upon 
these  things.  The  cloth  was  laid  upon  the  flowery  turf,  beneathi 
the  spreading  branches  of  the  arbor.  The  delicacies  of  the  dairy 
were  added  to  their  repast,  and  Betsey  provided  a dessert  of  new 
Alberts. 

Never  had  Lord  Cherbury  partaken  of  so  delicious  a meal — 
never  had  he  and  Amanda  experienced  such  happiness.  The 
pleasure,  the  tenderness  of  their  souls,  beamed  in  expressive 
glances  from  their  eyes,  and  they  were  now  more  convinced  than 
ever  that  the  humble  scenes  of  life  were  best  calculated  for  the 
promotion  of  felicity.  Lord  Cherbury  felt  more  reconciled  than 
he  had  been  before  to  the  diminution  of  his  fortune ; he  yet  re- 
tained  sufflcient  for  the  comforts,  and  many  of  the  elegancies  of 
life.  The  splendor  he  lost  was  insignificant  in  his  eyes;  his  pres- 
ent situation  proved  happiness  could  be  enjoyed  without  it,  and 
he  knew  it  was  equally  disregarded  by  Amanda.  He  asked  him- 
self : 

‘ What  was  the  world  to  them— 

Its  pomps,  its  pleasares,  and  its  nonsense  all, 

Who  in  each  other  clasp,  whatever  fair 
High  fancy  forms,  or  lavish  hearts  can  wish  ? ’ 

All  nature  looked  gay  and  smiMng  around  him.  He  inhaled  the 
balmy  breath  of  opening  flowers,  and  through  the  verdant  canopy 
he  sat  beneath,  he  saw  the  bright  azure  of  the  heavens,  and  felt 
the  benignant  influence  of  the  sun,  whose  potent  beams  heightened 
to  glowing  luxuriance  the  beauties  of  the  surrounding  landscape. 
He  expressed  his  feelings  to  Amanda ; he  heard  her  declare  the 
similarity  of  hers;  heard  her,  with  all  the  sweet  enthusiasm  of  a 
refined  and  animated  mind,  expatiate  on  the  lovely  scene  around 
them.  Oh,  what  tender  rememberances  did  it  awaken,  and 
what  delightful  plans  of  felicity  did  they  sketch ! Lord  Cher- 
bury  would  hear  from  Amanda  all  she  had  suffered  since  their 
separation ; and  could  his  love  and  esteem  have  been  increased 
her  patient  endurance  of  these  sorrows  she  related  would  have 
increased  them.  They  did  not  leave  the  garden  till  a dusky  hue 
had  overspread  the  landscape.  Oh,  with  what  emotions  did 
Amanda  watch  the  setting  sun,  whose  rising  beams  she  had  beheld 
with  eyes  obscured  by  tears  of  sorrow ! As  they  sat  at  tea  in  the 
room,  she  could  not  avoid  noticing  the  alteration  in  the  nurse’s 
dress,  who  attended.  She  had  put  on  all  her  holiday  finery ; and, 
to  evince  her  wish  of  amusing  her  guests,  had  sent  for  the  blind 
harper,  whom  she  stationed  outside  the  cottage.  His  music  drew 
a number  of  the  neighboring  cottagers  about  liim,  and  they 
would  soon  have  led  up  a dance  in  the  vale,  had  not  the  nurse 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


505 


prevented  them,  lest  they  should  disturb  her  guests.  Lord  Cher- 
bury,  however,  insisted  on  their  being  gratified,  and,  sending  for 
his  servant,  ordered  him  to  provide  refreshments  for  them,  and 
to  reward  the  harper.  He  would  not  leave  Amanda  till  he  had 
her  permission  to  come  early  next  morning,  as  soon  as  he  could 
hope  to  see  her.  Accordingly  the  first  voice  she  heard  on  rising 
was  his  chatting  to  the  nurse.  We  may  believe  she  did  not 
spend  many  minutes  at  her  toilet.  The  neat  simplicity  of  her 
dress  never  required  she  should  do  so,  and  in  a very  short  time 
she  joined  him.  They  walked  out  till  breakfast  was  ready. 

Together  trod  the  morning  dews,  and  gathered 

In  their  prime  fresh  blooming  sweets. 

Amanda,  in  hourly  expectation  of  her  brother’s  arrival,  wishea, 
ere  he  came,  to  inform  the  inhabitants  of  the  cottage  of  the  alter- 
ation of  his  fortune.  This,  with  the  assistance  of  Lord  Cher- 
bury,  she  took  an  opportunity  of  doing  in  the  course  of  the  day 
to  the  nurse.  Had  she  been  a sole  relator,  she  feared  she  should 
have  been  overwhelmed  with  questions.  Joy  and  wonder  were 
excited  in  an  extreme  degree  by  this  relation,  and  nothing  but 
the  nurse’s  hurry  and  impatience  to  communicate  it  to  her 
family,  could  have  prevented  her  from  asking  again  and  again  a 
repetition  of  it. 

Lord  Cherbury  now,  as  on  the  foregoing  day,  dined  with 
Amanda.  Her  expectations  relative  to  the  speedy  arrival  of 
her  brother  were  not  disappointed.  While  sitting  after  dinner 
with  Lord  Cherbury  in  the  garden,  the  nurse,  half  breathless, 
came  running  to  tell  them  that  a superb  coach  and  four,  which 
to  be  sure  must  be  my  Lort  Dunreath’s,  was  coming  down  the 
road. 

Lord  Cherbury  colored  with  emotion.  Amanda  did  not  wish 
he  and  her  brother  should  meet,  till  she  had  explained  everything 
relative  to  him.  By  her  desire  he  retired  to  the  valley,  to  which 
s.  winding  path  from  the  garden  descended,  while  she  hurried  to 
the  cottage  to  receive  and  welcome  her  beloved  brother.  Their 
meeting  was  at  once  tender  and  affecting.  The  faithful  Edwins 
surrounded  Oscar  with  delight  and  rapture,  pouring  forth,  in 
their  simple  style,  congratulations  on  his  happy  fortune,  and  their 
wishes  for  his  long  enjoying  it.  He  thanked  them  with  a start- 
ing tear  of  sensibility.  He  assured  them  that  their  attentions  to 
his  dear  sister,  his  lamented  parents,  his  infant  years,  entitled 
them  to  a lasting  gratitude.  As  soon  as  he  and  Amanda  could 
disengage  themselves  from  the  good  creatures,  without  wounding 
their  feelings,  they  retired  to  her  room,  where  Oscar  related,  as 
we  have  already  done,  all  that  had  passed  between  him  and  the 
Marquis  of  Roslin. 


500 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


As  soon  as  the  funeral  of  Lad ,7  Euphrasia  was  over,  the  mar* 
quis  settled  everything  with  him,  and  put  him  into  formal  pos* 
session  of  Dunreath  Abbey.  By  the  marc{uis‘s  desire,  he  then 
waited  upon  Lady  Dunreath,  to  inform  lier  she  was  at  liberty,  and 
to  request  she  would  not  contradict  the  assertion  of  having’  been 
abroad.  Mrs.  Bruce  had  previously  informed  her  of  the  I'evolu- 
t ion  of  affairs.  ‘ I own,’ continued  Oscar,  ‘from  the  cruelty  to 
my  mother,  and  the  depravity  of  lier  conduct,  I was  strongljr 
prejudiced  against  her,  attributing,  I acknowledge,  her  doing 
justice  to  us,  in  some  degree,  to  her  resentment  against  the  mar- 
quis; but  the  moment  I entered  her  apartment  this  prejudice  van- 
ished, giving  place  to  the  softer  emotions  of  pity  and  tenderness, 
while  a thorough  conviction  of  her  sincere  repentance  broke  upon, 
my  soul.  Though  prepared  to  see  a form  reduced  by  affliction 
and  confinement,  I was  not  by  any  means  prepared  to  see  a- form 
so  emaciated,  so  death  like— a faint  motion  of  her  head,  as  I 
entered,  alone  proved  her  existence.  Had  the  word  been  given 
me  to  do  so.  I think  I could  not  have  broken  a silence  so  awfuL 
At  length  she  spoke,  and  in  language  that  pierced  my  heart,  im- 
plored my  forgiveness  for  the  sufferings  she  had  caused  me  to  en- 
dure. Repeatedly  I assured  her  of  it ; but  this  rather  heightened 
than  diminished  her  agitation,  and  tears  and  sobs  spoke  the  an- 
guish of  her  soul.  ‘ I have  lived,’  she  cried,  ‘ to  justify  the  ways  of 
Providence  to  men,  and  prove  that,  however  calamity  may  op- 
press the  virtuous,  they  or  their  descendants  shall  at  last  flourish. 
I have  lived  to  see  my  contrite  wish  accomplished,  and  the  last 
summons  will  now  be  a welcome  release.’  She  expressed  an  ar- 
dent desire  to  see  her  daughter.  ‘ The  pitying  tears  of  a mother/ 
she  exclaimed,  * may  be  as  a balm  to  her  wounded  heart.  Oh, 
my  prophetic  words,  how  often  have  I prayed  that  the  punish- 
ment I then  denounced  against  her  might  be  averted ! ’ 

‘ I signified  her  desire,’  continued  Oscar,  ‘to  the  marquis.  I 
found  the  marchioness  at  first  reluctant  to  it,  from  a secret  dread 
I suppose,  of  seeing  an  object  so  injured;  but  she  at  last  con- 
sented, and  I was  requested  to  bring  Lady  Dunreath  from  the 
Abbey,  and  conduct  her  to  the  marchioness’s  room.  I will  not 
attempt  to  describe  the  scene  which  passed  between  affection  on 
the  one  hand,  and  penitence  on  the  other.  The  marchioness  in- 
deed seemed  truly  penitent ; remorse  and  horror  were  visible  in 
her  countenance,  as  she  gazed  upon  her  injured  parent.  I begged 
Lady  Dunreath,  if  agreeable  to  her,  still  to  consider  the  Abbey  as 
her  residence.  This,  however,  she  declined,  and  it  was  determined 
she  should  continue  with  her  daughter.  Her  last  moments  may, 
perhaps,  be  soothed  by  closing  in  the  presence  of  her  child;  but 
till  then,  I think  her  wretchedness  must  be  aggravated  by  be- 
holding that  of  the  marquis  and  his  wife.  Theirs  is  that  situa- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


507 


tion  where  comfort  can  neither  be  offered  nor  suggested — hope- 
less and  incurable  is  their  sorrow — for,  to  use  the  beautiful  and 
emphatic  words  of  a late  celebrated  writer,  “ The  gates  of  death 
are  shut  upon  their  prospects.”  ’ 

Amanda  now,  after  a little  hesitation,  proceeded  to  inform 
Oscar  of  her  real  situation,  and  entreated  him  to  believe  that  she 
never  would  have  had  a concealment  from  him,  but  for  the  fear 
of  giving  him  uneasiness.  He  folded  her  to  his  bosom  as 
she  ceased  speaking,  declaring  he  rejoiced  and  congratulated 
:ier  on  having  found  an  object  so  well  qualified  to  make  her  happy. 

‘ But  where  is  this  dear  creature?  ’ cried  Oscar,  with  some 
g*ayety;  'am  I to  search  for  him,  like  a favorite  sylph,  in  your 
bouquet;  or,  with  more  probability  of  success,  seek  him  among 
the  shades  of  the  garden?  Come,’ said  he,  ‘your  looks  confess 
our  search  will  not  be  troublesome.’  He  led  her  to  the  garden. 
Lord  Cherbury,  who  had  lingered  near  it,  saw  them  approaching. 
Amanda  motioned  him  to  meet  them.  He  sprang  forward,  and 
was  instantly  introduced  by  her  to  Lord  Dunreath.  The  recep- 
tion he  met  was  the  most  flattering  proof  he  could  receive  of  his 
Amanda’s  affections;  for  what  but  the  most  animated  expressions 
in  his  favor  could  have  made  Lord  Dunreath,  at  the  first  introduc- 
tion, address  him  with  all  the  fervency  of  friendship?  Extremes 
of  joy  and  sorrow  are  difficult  to  describe.  I shall,  therefore,  as 
perfectly  conscious  of  my  inability  to  do  justice  to  the  scene  which 
followed  this  introduction,  pass  it  over  in  silence.  Lord  Dun- 
reath had  ordered  his  equipage  and  attendants  to  the  village  inn, 
where  he  himself  intended  to  lodge.  But  this  was  prevented  by 
Lord  Cherbury,  who  informed  him  he  could  be  accommodated  at 
his  steward’s.  It  was  here,  when  they  had  retired  for  the  night, 
that.  Lord  Cherbury  having  intimated  his  wishes  for  an  im- 
mediate union  with  Amanda,  all  the  necessary  preliminaries  were 
talked  over  and  adjusted;  and  it  was  agreed  that  the  marriage 
should  take  place  at  the  cottage,  from  whence  they  should  im- 
mediately proceed  to  Lady  Martha’s,  and  that  to  procure  a license 
they  should  both  depart  the  next  morning.  At  breakfast,  there- 
ore,  Amanda  was  apprised  of  their  plan,  and  though  the  glow  of 
modesty  overspread  her  face,  she  did  not  with  affectation  object 
to  it. 

With  greater  expedition  than  Amanda  expected,  the  travelers 
returned  from  the  journey  they  had  been  obliged  to  take,  and  at 
their  earnest  and  united  request,  without  any  affectation  of 
modesty,  though  with  its  real  feelings,  Amanda  consented  that 
the  marriage  should  take  place  the  day  but  one  after  their  return. 
Howel  was  sent  for,  and  informed  of  the  hour  his  services  would 
be  required.  His  mild  eyes  evinced  to  Amanda  his  sincere  joy  at 
the  termination  of  her  sorrows. 


508 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


On  the  destined  morning,  Lord  Dunreath  and  his  friend  went 
over  to  the  cottage,  and  in  a few  minutes  were  joined  by 
Amanda,  the  perfect  model  of  innocence  and  beauty.  She 
looked,  indeed,  the  child  of  sweet  simplicity,  arrayed  with  the 
unstudied  elegance  of  a village  maid  ; she  had  no  ornaments  but 
those  which  could  never  decay,  namely,  modesty  and  meekness. 

Language  was  inadequate  to  express  the  feelings  of  Lord 
Cherbury.  His  tine  eyes  alone  could  do  them  justice — alone 
reveal  what  might  be  the  sacred  triumph  of  his  soul  at  gaining 
such  a woman.  A soft  shade  of  melancholy  stole  over  the  fine 
features  of  Lord  Dunreath,  as  he  witnessed  the  happiness  of 
Lord  Cherbury  ; for  as  his  happiness,  so  might  his  own  have 
been,  but  for  the  blackest  perfidy. 

As  Lord  Cherbury  took  the  trembling  hand  of  Amanda,  to 
lead  her  from  the  cottage,  she  gave  a farewell  sigh  to  a place 
where,  it  might  be  said,  her  happiness  had  commenced  and  was 
completed.  They  walked  to  the  church,  followed  by  the  nurse 
and  her  family.  Some  kind  hand  had  strewed  Lady  Malvina’s 
grave  with  the  gayest  flowers,  and  when  Amanda  reached  it  she 
paused  involuntarily  for  a moment,  to  invoke  the  spirits  of  her 
parents  to  bless  her  union. 

Howel  was  already  in  the  church,  waiting  to  receive  them, 
and  the  ceremony  was  begun  without  delay.  With  the  truest 
pleasure  did  Lord  Dunreath  give  his  lovely  sister  to  Lord  Cher* 
bury,  and  with  the  liveliest  transport  did  he  receive  her  as  the 
choicest  gift  Heaven  could  bestow.  Tears  of  sweet  sensibility 
fell  from  Amanda,  as  Lord  Cherbury  folded  her  to  his  bosom  as 
his  own  Amanda.  Nor  was  he  less  affected  ; joy  of  the  most 
rapturous  kind  agitated  his  whole  soul  at  the  completion  of  an 
event  so  earnestly  desired,  but  so  long  despaired  of.  He  wiped 
away  her  tears,  and,  when  she  had  received  the  congratulations 
of  her  brother,  presented  her  to  the  rest  of  the  little  group.  Their 
delight,  particularly  the  nurse’s,  was  almost  too  great  for 


I 


expression. 

‘Well,’  she  said,  sobbing,  ‘thank  Cot  her  wish  was  fulfilled. 
It  had  been  her  prayer,  night,  noon,  and  morn,  to  see  the 
taughter  of  her  tear,  tear  Captain  Fitzalan  greatly  married.’ 
Poor  Ellen  wept — ‘Well,  now  she  should  be  happy,’  she  said 
‘since  she  knew  her  tear  young  laty  was  so.’  Amanda,  affected 
by  the  artless  testimonies  of  affection  she  received,  could  only 
smile  upon  the  faithful  creatures. 

Lord  Cherbury,  seeing  her  unable  to  speak,  took  her  hand,  ana 
said — ‘ Lord  Cherbury  never  would  forget  the  obligations  con- 
ferred upon  Miss  Fitzalan.’  Bridal  favors  and  presents  had  al- 
ready been  distributed  among  the  Edwins.  Howel  was  hand- 
somely complimented  on  the  occasion,  and  received  some  valuable 
Drp!^ents  from  Lord  Cherbury,  as  proofs  of  his  sincere  friendship; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


509 


a,lso  money  to  distribute  among  the  indigent  villagers.  His  lord- 
ship  then  handed  Amanda  into  his  coach,  alrsady  prepared  for 
its  journey  to  Thornbury,  and  the  little  bridal  party  were  followed 
by  the  most  ardent  blessings.  After  proceeding  a quarter  of  a 
mile,  they  reached  Tudor  Hall. 

‘I  wish,  my  lord,’  cried  Oscar,  as  they  were  driving  round  the 
wood,  ‘ you  would  permit  me  to  stop  and  view  the  Hall,  and  also 
accompany  me  to  it.  ’ Lord  Cherbury  looked  a little  embarrassed. 
He  felt  a strong  reluctance  to  visit  it,  when  no  longer  his,  yet  he 
could  not  think  of  refusing  the  earl.  Amanda  knew  his  feelings, 
and  wished  her  brother  had  not  made  such  a request.  No  oppo- 
sition, however,  being  shown  to  it,  they  stopped  at  the  great  gate 
which  opened  into  the  avenue,  and  alighted.  This  was  a long, 
beautiful  walk,  cut  through  the  wood,  and  in  a direct  line  with 
the  house.  On  either  side  were  little  grassy  banks,  now  covered 
with  a profusion  of  gay  flowers,  and  a thick  row  of  trees,  which, 
waving  their  old  fantastic  branches  on  high,  formed  a most  de- 
lightful shade.  Honeysuckles,  twined  around  many  of  the 
trunks,  forming  in  some  places  luxuriant  canopies,  and  with  a 
variety  of  aromatic  shrubs  quite  perfumed  the  air.  It  was  yet 
an  early  hour;  the  dew,  therefore,  still  sparkled  upon  the  grass, 
and  everything  looked  in  the  highest  verdure.  Through  vistas 
in  the  wood,  a fine  clear  river  was  seen,  along  whose  sides  beau- 
tiful green  slopes  were  stretched,  scattered  over  with  flocks,  that 
spread  their  swelling  treasures  to  the  sun.  The  birds  sung 
sweetly  in  the  embowering  recesses  of  the  woods,  and  so  calm,  so 
lovely  did  the  place  appear,  that  Lord  Cherbury  could  not  refrain 
a sigh  for  its  loss.  ‘How  delighted,’  cried  he,  casting  his  fine 
•eyes  around,  ‘ should  I have  been  still  to  have  cherished  those  old 
trees,  beneath  whose  shades  some  of  my  happiest  hours  were 
passed.  ’ They  entered  the  hall,  whose  folding  doors  they  found 
open.  It  was  large  and  gothic  ; a row  of  arched  windows  were 
on  either  side,  whose  recesses  were  filled  with  myrtles,  roses,  and 
geraniums,  which  emitted  a delicious  perfume,  and,  contrasted 
with  the  white  walls,  gave  an  appearance  of  the  greatest  gayety 
to  the  place. 

Oscar  led  the  way  to  a spacious  parlor  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
But  how  impossible  to  describe  the  surprise  and  pleasure  of  Lord 
and  Lady  Cherbury,  on  entering  it,  at  beholding  Lady  Martha 
and  Lady  Araminta  Dormer  ! Lord  Cherbury  stood  transfixed 
like  a statue.  The  caresses  of  his  aunt  and  his  sister,  which  were 
shared  between  him  and  his  bride,  restored  him  to  animation  ; 
but  while  he  returned  them,  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  Oscar,  de  - 
manded an  explanation  of  the  scene.  ‘ I shall  give  no  explanation , 
my  lord,’  cried  Oscar,  ‘ till  you  welcome  your  friends  to  your 
house.’ 

‘ My  house  ! ’ repeated  Lord  Cherbury,  staring  at  him.  Lord 


510 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Punreath  approached.  Never  had  he  appeared  so  engag-ingf. 
The  benignant  expression  his  countenance  assumed  was  such  as 
we  may  suppose  an  angel  sent  from  heaven,  on  benevolent  pur- 
poses  to  man,  would  wear. 

‘Excuse  me,  my  dear  Cherbury,’  said  he,  ‘for  suffering  you  to 
feel  any  uneasiness  which  I could  remove.  I only  did  so  from 
an  idea  of  increasing  your  pleasure  hereafter.  In  Scotland  I was 
informed  of  your  predilection  for  my  sister  by  Lady  Greystock, 
whom,  I fancy,  you  have  both  some  reason  to  remember,  in  con- 
sequence of  which,  on  seeing  Tudor  Hall  advertised,  I begged  Sir 
Charles  Bingley  to  purchase  it  for  me,  in  his  own  name,  from  a 
presentiment  I had,  that  the  event  I now  rejoice  at  would  take 
place  ; and  from  my  wish  of  having  a nuptial  present  for  my  sis- 
ter worthy  of  her  acceptance.  Let  me,’ continued  he,  taking  a 
hand  of  each  and  joining  them  together,  ‘ let  me,  in  this  respected 
mansion,  and  in  the  dear  presence  of  those  you  love,  again  wish 
you  a continuance  of  every  blessing.  May  this  seat,  as  heretofore, 
be  the  scene  of  domestic  happiness  ; may  it  ever  be  a pleasing 
abode  to  the  prosperous,  and  an  asylum  of  comfort  to  the  afflicted.^ 

Lord  Cherbury’s  heart  was  too  full  for  words.  He  turned  aside 
to  wipe  away  his  starting  tears.  At  last,  though  in  a broken 
voice,  he  said,  ‘I  cannot  speak  my  feelings.’  ‘Pain  me  not,’ 
cried  Oscar,  ‘ by  attempting  to  do  so.  From  this  moment  forget  ‘ 
that  Tudor  Hall  was  ever  out  of  your  possession  ; or,  if  you  must 
remember  it,  think  it  restored  to  you  with  an  encumbrance,  which  . 
half  the  fashionable  men  in  England  would  give  an  estate  to  get 
rid  of,  and  this  will  conquer  your  too  refined  feelings.’ 

Lord  Cherbury  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  lovely  encumbrance 
which  Oscar  alluded  to.  ‘ And  what  shall  I say  to  my  brother  ? * 
cried  Amanda,  throwing  herself  into  his  arms.  ‘ Why,  that  you 
will  compose  your  spirits,  and  endeavor  to  give  a proper  welcome 
to  your  friends.’  He  presented  her  to  Lady  Martha  and  Lady  ^ 
Araminta,  who  again  embraced  and  congratulated  her.  He  then  ; 
led  her  to  the  head  of  the  breakfast  table,  which  was  elegantly 
laid  out.  The  timid  bride  was  assisted  in  doing  the  honors  by  her 
brother  and  Lord  Cherbury.  Lady  Martha  beheld  the  youthful 
pair  with  the  truest  delight.  Never  had  she  before  seen  two,  from 
equal  merit  and  loveliness,  so  justly  formed  to  make  each  other 
happy  ; never  had  she  seen  either  to  such  advantage.  The  beauti- 
ful coloring  of  health  and  modesty  tinged  the  soft  cheeks  of 
Amanda,  and  her  eyes,  through  their  long  lashes,  emitted  mild 
beams  of  pleasure  ; its  brightest  glow  mantled  the  cheeks  of  Lord 
Cherbury,  and  his  eyes  were  again  illumined  with  all  their  wonted 
radiancy. 

Oscar  was  requested  to  tell  particularly  how  he  had  arranged 
• which  he  accordingly  did.  He  had  written  to  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


611 


ladies  at  Thornbury,  informing  them  of  his  scheme,  and  request- 
ing their  presence,  and  on  the  preceding  night  they  had  arrived 
at  the  Hall.  Lord  Dunreath  also  added,  that  from  a certainty  of 
its  being  agreeable  to  Lord  Cherbury,  he  had  directed  the  steward 
to  reinstate  the  old  servants  in  their  former  stations,  and  also  to 
invite  the  tenants  to  a nuptial  feast.  Lord  Cherbury  assured  him 
he  had  done  what  was  truly  grateful  to  his  feelings.  A ramble 
about  the  garden  and  shrubberies  was  proposed,  and  agreed  to, 
after  breakfast.  In  the  hall  and  avenue  the  servants  and  tenants 
were  already  assembled.  Lord  Cherbury  went  among  them  all, 
and  the  grateful  joy  they  expressed  at  having  him  again  for  a 
master  and  a landlord  deeply  affected  his  feelings.  He  thanked 
them  for  their  regard,  and  received  their  congratulations  on  his 
present  happiness  with  that  sweetness  and  affability  which  ever 
distinguished  his  manners.  The  ramble  was  delightful.  When 
the  sun  had  attained  its  meridian,  they  sought  the  cool  shade,  and 
retired  to  little,  romantic  arbors,  over-canopied  with  woodbines, 
where,  as  if  by  the  hand  of  enchantment,  they  found  refreshments 
laid  out.  They  did  not  return  to  the  house  till  they  received  a 
summons  to  dinner,  and  had  then  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  ten- 
ants seated  at  long  tables  in  the  wood,  enjoying  with  unbounded 
mirth  the  profusion  with  which  they  were  covered,  and  Lord  Cher- 
bury begged  Amanda  to  observe  her  nurse  seated  at  the  head  of 
one  of  these  tables,  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  self-importance. 
The  pride  and  vanity  of  this  good  woman  (and  she  always  pos- 
sessed a large  share  of  both)  had  been  considerably  increased  from 
the  time  her  cottage  was  honored  with  such  noble  guests.  When 
she  received  an  invitation  from  the  steward  to  accompany  the  rest 
of  the  tenants  to  the  Hall  to  celebrate  its  restoration  to  Lord  Cher- 
bury, her  joy  and  exultation  knew  no  bounds  ; she  took  care  to 
walk  with  the  wives  of  some  of  the  most  respectable  tenants,  de- 
scribing to  them  all  that  had  passed  at  the  ceremony,  and  how  the 
earl  had  first  fallen  in  love  with  his  bride  at  her  cottage,  and  what 
trials  they  had  undergone,  no  doubt,  to  prove  their  constancy. 
‘ Cot  pless  their  hearts,  ’ she  said  to  her  eager  auditors  ; ‘ she  could 
tell  them  of  such  tangers  and  tifficulties,  and  tribulations,  as 
would  surprise  the  very  souls  in  their  poties.  Well,  well,  it  is 
now  her  tear  child’s  turn  to  hold  up  her  head  with  the  highest  in 
the  land,  and  to  pe  sure  she  might  now  say,  without  telling  a lie, 
that  her  tear  latyship  would  now  make  somepoty  of  herself,  and, 
please  Cot,  she  hoped  and  pelieved  she  would  not  tisgrace  or  tis- 
parage  a petter  situation.’  When  she  came  near  the  countess,  she 
took  care  to  press  forward  for  a gracious  look  ; but  this  was  not 
all  ; she  had  always  envied  the  consequence  of  Mrs.  Aberg willy 
in  having  so  great  a house  as  the  Hall  entirely  under  her  manage- 
ment, and  she  now  determined,  upon  the  strength  of  her  favor 


512 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


with  Lady  Cherbury,  to  having  something  to  say  to  it,  and,  of 
course,  increase  her  consequence  among  her  neighbors.  There 
was  nothing  on  earth  she  so  much  delighted  in  as  bustle,  and  the 
present  scene  was  quite  adapted  to  her  taste,  for  all  within  and 
without  the  house  was  joyous  confusion.  The  first  specimen  she 
gave  of  her  intention  was  in  helping  to  distribute  refreshments 
among  the  tenants  ; she  then  proceeded  to  the  dinner  parlor,  to 
give  her  opinion,  and  assistance,  and  direction  about  laying  out 
the  table.  Mrs.  Abergwilly,  like  the  generality  of  those  accus- 
tomed to  absolute  power,  could  not  tamely  submit  to  any  inno- 
vation on  it.  She  curbed  her  resentment,  however,  and  civilly 
told  Mrs.  Edwin  she  wanted  no  assistance  ; ‘ thank  Cot,  ’ she  said, 

‘ she  was  not  come  to  this  time  of  tay  without  peing  able  to  give 
proper  tirections  about  laying  out  a table.  ’ Mrs.  Edwin  said,  ‘ To 
be  sure  Mrs.  Abergwilly  might  have  a very  pretty  taste,  but  then 
another  person  might  have  as  good  a one.  ’ The  day  was  intense- 
ly hot  ; she  pinned  back  her  go  wn,  which  was  a rich  silk  that  had 
belonged  to  Lady  Malvina,  and,  without  further  ceremony,  began 
altering  the  dishes,  saying,  she  knew  the  taste  of  her  tear  laty,  the 
countess,  better  than  anyone  else,  and  that  she  would  take  an  early 
opportunity  of  going  through  the  apartments,  and  telling  Mrs. 
Abergwilly  how  to  arrange  the  furniture. 

The  Welsh  blood  of  the  housekeeper  could  bear  no  more, 
and  she  began  abusing  Mrs.  Edwin,  though  in  terms  scarcely 
articulate,  to  which  she  replied  with  interest.  In  the  midst  of 
this  fracas,  old  Edwin  entered.  ‘ For  the  love  of  Cot,’  he  asked, 
‘ and  the  mercy  of  Heaven,  could  they  choose  no  other  time  or 
tay  than  the  present  to  pegin  to  fight,  and  scold,  and  abuse  each 
other  like  a couple  of  Welsh  witches?  What  would  the  noble 
earl  and  the  countess  say?  Oh,  Lord!  oh.  Lord!  he  felt  himself 
blushing  all  over  for  their  misdemeanors.’  His  remonstrance  had 
an  immediate  effect ; they  were  both  ashamed  of  their  conduct ; 
their  rage  abated;  they  became  friends,  and  Mrs.  Edwin  resigned 
the  direction  of  the  dinner  table  to  Mrs.  Abergwilly,  satisfied 
with  being  allowed  to  preside  among  the  tenants. 

The  bridal  party  found  Howel  in  the  dining  parlor,  and  his 
company  increased  their  pleasure.  After  dinner  the  rustics 
commenced  dancing  in  the  avenue,  to  the  strains  of  the  harp, 
and  afforded  a delightful  scene  of  innocent  gayety  to  their  benev- 
olent entertainers,  who  smiled  to  see 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down:  ^ 

The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love, 

The  matron’s  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove. 

After  tea  the  party  went  out  among  them,  and  the  gentlemen, 
for  a short  time,  mingled  in  the  dance.  Long  it  could  not  detain 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


513 


Lord ' Cherbury  from  his  Amanda.  Oh!  with  what  ecstasy  did 
he  listen  to  the  soft  accents  of  her  voice,  while  his  fond  heart 
assured  him  she  was  now  his ! The  remembrance  of  past  diffi- 
culties but  increased  his  present  felicity.  In  the  course  of  the 
week  all  the  neighboring  families  came  to  pay  their  congratula- 
tions at  Tudor  Hall ; invitations  were  given  and  received,  and 
it  again  became  the  seat  of  pleasure  and  hospitality;  but  Amanda 
did  not  suffer  the  possession  of  happiness  to  obliterate  one  grate- 
ful remembrance  from  her  mind.  She  was  not  one  of  those  sel- 
fish beings,  who,  on  being  what  is  termed  settled  for  life,  imme- 
diately contract  themselves  within  the  narrow  sphere  of  their  own 
enjoyments ; still  was  her  heart  as  sensible  as  ever  to  the  glow  of 
friendship  and  compassion.  She  wrote  to  all  the  friends  she  had 
ever  received  kindness  from,  in  terms  of  the  warmest  gratitude, 
and  her  letters  were  accompanied  by  presents  sufficiently  valu- 
able to  prove  her  sincerity.  She  sent  an  invitation  to  Emily 
Eushbrook,  which  was  immediately  accepted.  And  now  a dis- 
covery took  place  which  infinitely  surprised  and  pleased  Amanda, 
namely,  that  Howel  was  the  young  clergyman  Emily  was  at- 
tached to.  He  had  gone  to  London  on  a visit  to  the  gentleman 
who  patronized  him.  Her  youth,  her  simplicity,  above  all,  her 
distress,  affected  his  heart ; and  in  the  hope  of  mitigating  that 
distress  (which  he  was  shocked  to  see  had  been  aggravated  by 
the  ladies  she  came  to),  he  had  followed  her.  To  soothe  the 
wretched,  to  relieve  the  distressed,  was  not  considered  more  a 
duty  than  a pleasure  by  Howel.  And  the  little  favors  he  con- 
ferred upon  the  Rushbrooks  afforded,  if  possible,  more  pleasure 
to  him  than  they  did  to  them;  so  sweet  are  the  feelings  of  benev- 
olence and  virtue.  But  compassion  was  not  long  the  sole 
motive  of  his  interest  in  their  affairs — the  amiable  manners,  the 
gentle  conversation  of  Emily,  completely  subdued  his  unfortu- 
nate passion  for  Amanda,  and  in  stealing  her  image  from  his 
heart  she  implanted  her  own  in  its  place.  He  described,  in  a 
romantic  manner,  the  little  rural  cottage  he  invited  her  to  share ; 
he  anticipated  the  happy  period  when  it  should  become  an  asylum 
to  her  parents ; when  he,  like  a second  father,  should  assist  theii? 
children  through  the  devious  paths  of  life.  These  fond  hopes 
and  expectations  vanished  the  moment  he  received  Mrs.  Connel’s 
letter.  He  could  not  think  of  sacrificing  the  interest  of  Rush- 
brook  to  the  consideration  of  his  own  happiness,  and  therefoi’e 
generously,  but  with  the  most  agonizing  conflicts,  resigned  his 
Emily  to  a more  prosperous  rival.  His  joy  at  finding  her  disen- 
gaged, still  his  own  unaltered  Emily,  can  better  be  conceived 
than  described.  He  pointed  out  the  little  sheltered  cottage  which 
again  he  hoped  she  would  share,  and  blessed,  with  her,  the  hand 
that  had  opened  her  father’s  prison  gates.  Lord  and  Lady  Cher- 


514 


THE  CHILDHEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


bury  were  delighted  to  think  they  could  contribute  to  the  felicity 
of  two  such  amiable  beings ; and  the  latter  wrote  to  Captain  and 
Mrs.  Rushbrook  on  the  subject,  who  immediately  replied  to  her 
letter,  declaring  that  their  fondest  wish  would  be  gratified  in  be- 
stowing their  daughter  on  Howel.  They  were  accordingly  in- 
vited to  the  Hall,  and  in  the  same  spot  where  a month  before  he 
ratified  the  vows  of  Lord  Cherbury  and  Amanda,  did  Howel 
plight  his  own  to  Emily,  who  from  the  hand  of  Lady  Cherbury 
received  a nuptial  present  sufficient  to  procure  every  enjoyment 
her  humble  and  unassuming  spirit  aspired  to.  Her  parents,  after 
passing  a few  days  in  her  cottage,  departed,  rejoicing  at  the  hap- 
piness of  their  beloved  child,  and  truly  grateful  to  those  who  had 
contributed  to  it. 

And  now  did  the  grateful  children  of  Fitzalan  amply  reward 
the  Edwins  for  their  past  kindnesses  to  their  parents  and  them- 
selves. An  annual  stipend  was  settled  on  Edwin  by  Lord  Dun- 
reath,  and  the  possessions  of  Ellen  were  enlarged  by  Amanda. 
Now  was  realized  every  scheme  of  domestic  happiness  she  had 
ever  formed;  but  even  that  happiness  could  not  alleviate  her 
feelings  on  Oscar’s  account,  whose  faded  cheek,  whose  languid 
eye,  whose  total  abstraction  in  the  midst  of  company,  evidently 
proved  the  state  of  his  heart ; and  the  tear  of  regret,  which  had  so 
often  fallen  for  her  own  sorrows,  was  now  shed  for  his.  He  had 
written  to  Mrs.  Marlowe  a particular  account  of  everything 
which  had  befallen  him  since  their  separation.  She  answered  his 
letter  immediately,  and,  after  congratulating  him  in  the  warmest 
terms  on  the  change  in  his  situation,  informed  him  that  Adela 
was  then  at  one  of  Belgrave’s  seats  in  England,  and  that  he  was 
gone  to  the  Continent.  Her  style  was  melancholy,  and  she  con- 
cluded her  letter  in  these  words : ‘ No  longer,  my  dear  Oscar,  is 
my  fireside  enlivened  by  gayety  or  friendship ; sad  and  solitary 
I sit  within  my  cottage  till  my  heart  sickens  at  the  remembrance 
of  past  scenes,  and  if  I wander  from  it,  the  objects  without,  if 
possible,  add  to  the  bitterness  of  that  remembrance.  The  closed 
windows,  the  grass-grown  paths,  the  dejected  servants  of  Wood- 
lawn,  all  recall  to  my  mind  those  hours  when  it  was  the  man- 
sion of  hospitality  and  pleasure.  I often  linger  by  the  grave 
of  the  general ; my  tears  fall  upon  it,  and  I think  of  that  period 
when,  like  him,  I shall  drop  into  it.  But  my  last  hours  will  not 
close  like  his;  no  tender  child  will  bend  over  my  pillow,  to 
catch  my  last  sigh,  to  soothe  my  last  pang.  In  vain  my  closing 
eyes  will  look  for  the  pious  drops  of  nature,  or  of  friendship. 
Unfriended  I shall  die,  with  the  sad  consciousness  of  doing  so 
through  my  own  means ; but  I shall  not  be  quite  unmourned. 
You,  and  my  Adela,  the  sweet  daughter  of  my  care,  will  regret 
the  being  whose  affection,  whose  sympathy  for  you  both,  can  only 
be  obliterated  with  ’ 


THE  CHILDKEN  OP  THE  ABBEY* 


615 


CHAPTER  LVIir. 

The  modest  virtues  mingled  in  her  eyes, 

Still  on  the  ground  dejected,  darting  all 
Their  humid  beams  into  the  opening  flowers. 

' Or  when  she  thought 

Of  what  her  faithless  fortune  promised  once, 

They,  like  the  dewy  star 

Of  evening,  shone  in  tears.— Thomson. 

Adela,  on  the  death  of  her  father,  was  taken  by  Belgrave  to 
England,  though  the  only  pleasure  he  experienced  in  removing 
her  was  derived  from  the  idea  of  wounding  her  feelings,  by  sepa- 
rating her  from  Mrs.  Marlowe,  whom  he  knew  she  was  tenderly 
attached  to.  From  his  connections  in  London,  she  was  compelled 
to  mix  in  society — compelled  I say,  for  the  natural  gayety  of  her 
soul  was  quite  gone,  and  that  solitude,  which  permitted  her  to 
brood  over  the  remembrance  of  past  days,  was  the  only  happiness 
she  was  capable  of  enjoying.  When  the  terrors  of  Belgrave  drove 
him  from  the  kingdom,  he  had  her  removed  to  Woodhouse,  to 
which,  it  may  be  remembered,  he  had  once  brought  Amanda,  and 
from  which  the  imperious  woman  who  then  ruled  was  removed; 
but  the  principal  domestic  w^as  equally  harsh  and  insolent  in  her 
manner,  and  to  her  care  the  unfortunate  Adela  was  consigned, 
with  strict  orders  that  she  should  not  be  allowed  to  receive  any 
company,  or  correspond  with  any  being.  Accustomed  from  her 
earliest  youth  to  the  greatest  tenderness,  this  severity  plunged  her 
in  the  deepest  despondency,  and  life  was  a burden  she  would 
gladly  have  resigned.  Her  melancholy,  or  rather  her  patient  sweet- 
ness, at  last  softened  the  flinty  nature  of  her  governante,  and  she 
was  permitted  to  extend  her  walks  beyond  the  gardens,  to  which 
they  had  hitherto  been  conflned ; but  she  availed  herself  of  this 
permission  only  to  visit  the  churchyard  belonging  to  the  hamlet, 
whose  old  yew  trees  she  had  often  seen  waving  from  the  windows. 
Beneath  their  solemn  gloom  she  loved  to  sit,  while  evening  closed 
around  her;  and,  in  a spot  sequested  from  every  human  eye, 
weep  over  the  recollection  of  that  father  she  had  lost,  that  friend 
she  was  separated  from.  She  remained  in  the  churchyard  one 
night  beyond  her  usual  hour.  The  soft  beams  of  the  moon  alone 
prevented  her  from  being  involved  in  darkness,  and  the  plaintive 
breathings  of  a flute  from  the  hamlet  just  stole  upon  her  ear. 
Lost  in  sadness,  her  head  resting  upon  her  hand,  she  forgot  the 
progress  of  time,  when  suddenly  she  beheld  a form  rising  from  a 
neighboring  grave.  She  started  up,  screamed,  but  had  no  power 
to  move.  The  form  advanced  to  her.  It  was  the  figure  of  a 
venerable  man,  who  gently  exclaimed,  ‘ Be  not  afraid ! ’ His 
voice  dissipated  the  involuntary  fears  of  Adela:  but  still  she 
trembled  so  much  she  could  not  move.  ‘I  thought,’  cried  he, 
gazing  on  her,  ‘ this  p^ — bee*'  alone  fha  V»aunt  of  wretched* 


516 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ness  and  me.’  ^ If  sacred  to  sorrow,’  exclaimed  Adela,  ‘I  well 
may  claim  the  privilege  of  entering  it.’  She  spoke  involuntarily, 
and  her  words  seemed  to  affect  the  stranger  deeply.  ‘ So  young,’ 
said  he ; ‘it  is  melancholy,  indeed ; but  still  the  sorrows  of  youth 
are  more  bearable  than  those  of  age,  because,  like  age,  it  has  not 
outlived  the  fond  ties,  the  sweet  connections  of  life.’  ‘Alas!’ 
cried  Adela,  unable  to  repress  her  feelings,  ‘ I am  separated  from 
all  I regarded.’  The  stranger  leaned  pensively  against  a tree  for 
a few  minutes,  and  then  again  addressed  her:  ‘ ’Tis  a late  hour,’ 
said  he ; ‘ suffer  me  to  conduct  you  home,  and  also  permit  me  to 
ask  if  I may  see  you  here  to-morrow  night  ? Your  youth,  your 
manner,  your  dejection,  all  interest  me  deeply.  The  sorrows  of 
youth  are  often  increased  by  imagination.  You  will  say  that 
nothing  can  exceed  its  pains ; ’tis  true,  but  it  is  a weakness  to 
yield  to  them — a weakness  which,  from  a sensible  mind,  will  be 
eradicated  the  moment  it  hears  of  the  real  calamities  of  life. 
Such  a relation  1 can  give  you  if  you  meet  me  to-morrow  night  in 
this  sad,  this  solitary  spot— a spot  I have  visited  every  closing 
evening,  without  ever  before  meeting  a being  in  it.’ 

His  venerable  looks,  his  gentle,  his  pathetic  manner,  affected 
Adela  inexpressibly.  She  gazed  on  h * “n  with  emotions  somewhat 
similar  to  those  with  which  she  used  to  contemplate  the  mild 
features  of  her  father.  ‘I  will  meet  you,’ cried  she,  ‘but  my 
sorrows  are  not  imaginary.’  She  refused  to  let  him  attend  her 
home;  and  in  this  incident  there  was  something  affecting  and 
romantic,  which  soothed  and  engrossed  the  mind.  She  was  punc- 
tual the  next  evening  to  the  appointed  hour.  The  stranger 
was  already  in  the  churchyard.  He  seated  her  at  the  head  of  the 
grave  from  which  she  had  seen  him  rise  the  preceding  night,  and 
which  was  only  distinguished  from  the  others  by  a few  flowering 
shrubs  planted  round  it,  and  began  his  promised  narrative.  He 
had  not  proceeded  far  ere  Adela  began  to  tremble  with  emotion--- 
as  he  continued  it  increased.  At  last,  suddenly  catching  his  hand 
with  wildness,  she  exclaimed,  ‘ She  lives — the  wife  so  bitterly 
lamented  still  lives,  a solitary  mourner  for  your  sake.  Oh, 
never  I never  did  she  injure  you  as  you  suppose.  Oh,  dear,  in- 
estimable Mrs.  Marlowe,  what  happiness  to  the  child  of  your 
care,  to  think  that  through  her  means  you  will  regain  the  being 
you  have  so  tenderly  regretted — regain  him  with  a heart  open  to 
receive  you.’  The  deep  convulsive  sobs  of  her  companion  now 
pierced  her  ear.  For  many  minutes  he  was  unable  to  speak— at 
last,  raising  his  eyes,  ‘ O Providence  1 I thank  Thee,  ’ he  ex- 
claimed ; ‘ again  shall  my  arms  fold  to  my  heart  its  best  beloved 
object.  Oh,  my  Fanny,  how  have  T injured  thee  ! Learn  from 
me,’ he  continued,  turning  to  Adela,  ‘oh  ! learn  from  me  never 
to  yield  to  rashness.  Had  I allowed  myself  time  to  inquire  into 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


517 


the  particulars  of  my  wife’s  conduct  ; had  I resisted,  instead  of 
obeying*,  the  violence  of  passion,  what  years  of  lingering  misery 
should  I have  saved  us  both  ! But  tell  me  where  I shall  find  my 
solitary  mourner,  as  you  call  her  ? ’ Adela  gave  him  the  desired 
information,  and  also  told  him  her  own  situation.  ‘ The  wife  of 
Belgrave  ! ’ he  repeated  ; ‘then  I wonder  not,’  continued  he,  as 
if  involuntarily,  ‘ at  your  sorrows.  ’ It  was,  indeed,  to  Howel,  the 
unfortunate  father  of  Juliana,  the  regretted  husband  of  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  that  Adela  had  been  addressing  herself.  He  checked 
himself,  however,  and  told  her  that  the  being,  by  whose  grave 
they  sat,  had  been  hurried,  through  the  villainy  of  Belgrave,  to 
that  grave.  Adela  told  him  of  the  prohibition  against  her  writing ; 
but  at  the  same  time  assured  him,  ere  the  following  night,  she 
would  find  an  opportunity  of  writing  a letter,  which  he  should 
bring  to  Mrs.  Marlowe,  who  by  its  contents  would  be  prepared 
for  his  appearance,  as  it  was  to  be  sent  in  to  her.  But  Adela  was 
prevented  from  putting  her  intention  into  execution  by  an  event 
as  solemn  as  unexpected. 

The  ensuing  morning  she  was  disturbed  from  her  sleep  by  a 
violent  noise  in  the  house,  as  of  people  running  backward  and 
forward  in  confusion  and  distress.  She  was  hurrying  on  her 
clothes  to  go  and  inquire  into  the  occasion  of  it,  when  a servant 
rushed  into  the  room,  and  in  a hasty  manner  told  her  that 
Colonel  Belgrave  was  dead.  Struck  with  horror  and  amaze- 
ment, Adela  stood  petrified,  gazing  on  her.  The  maid  repeated 
her  words,  and  added  that  he  had  died  abroad,  and  his  remains 
were  brought  over  to  Woodhouse  for  interment,  attended  by  a 
French  gentleman,  who  looked  like  a priest.  The  various  emo- 
tions which  assailed  the  heart  of  Adela  at  this  moment  were  too 
much  for  her  weak  frame,  and  she  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor 
but  for  the  maid.  It  was  some  time  ere  she  recovered  her  sensi- 
bility, and  when  she  did  regain  it,  she  was  still  so  agitated  as  to 
be  unable  to  give  those  directions,  which  the  domestics,  who  now 
looked  up  to  her  in  a light  very  different  from  what  they  had 
hitherto  done,  demanded  from  her.  All  she  could  desire  was  that 
the  steward  should  pay  every  respect  and  attention  to  the  gentle- 
man who  had  attended  the  remains  of  his  master,  and  have  every 
honor  that  was  due  shown  to  those  remains.  To  suppose  she  re- 
gretted Belgrave  would  be  unnatural  ; but  she  felt  horror, 
mingled  wkh  a degree  of  pity,  for  his  untimely  fate  at  the  idea  of 
his  dying  abroad,  without  one  connection,  one  friend  near  him. 
His  last  moments  were  indeed  more  wretched  than  she  could  con- 
ceive. Overwhelmed  with  terror  and  gi’ief,  he  had  quitted 
England — terror  at  the  supposition  of  a crime  which  in  reality  he 
had  not  committed,  and  grief  for  the  fate  of  Amanda.  He  sought 
tx>lose  his  horrors  in  inebriety;  but  this,  joined  to  the  agitations 


518 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


of  his  mind,  brought  on  a violent  fever  by  the  time  he  had  landed 
at  Calais,  in  the  paroxysms  of  which,  had  the  attendants  under- 
stood his  language,  they  would  have  been  shocked  at  the  crimes 
he  revealed.  His  senses  were  restored  a short  time  before  he 
died  ; but  what  excruciating  anguish,  as  well  as  horror,  did  he 
suffer  from  their  restoration  ! He  knew  from  his  own  feelings, 
as  well  as  from  the  looks  of  his  attendants,  that  his  last  moments 
were  approaching  ; and  the  recollection  of  past  actions  made 
him  shudder  at  those  moments.  O Howel  1 now  were  you 
amply  avenged  for  all  the  pangs  he  made  you  suffer.  Now  did 
the  pale  image  of  your  shrouded  J uliana  seem  to  stand  beside  his 
bed  reproaching  his  barbarity.  Every  treacherous  action  now 
rose  to  view,  and,  trembling,  he  groaned  with  terror  at  the 
specters  which  a guilty  conscience  raised  around  him.  Death 
would  have  been  a release,  could  he  have  considered  it  an  anni- 
hilation of  all  existence  ; but  that  future  world  he  had  always 
derided,  tliat  world  was  opening  in  all  its  awful  horrors  to  his 
view.  Already  he  saw  himself  before  its  sacred  Judge,  sur- 
rounded by  the  accusing  spirits  of  those  he  had  injured.  He  de- 
sired a clergyman  to  be  brought  to  him.  A priest  was  sent  for. 
Their  faiths  were  different,  but  still,  as  a man  of  God,  Belgrave 
applied  to  him  for  an  alleviation  of  his  tortures.  The  priest  was 
superstitious,  and  ere  he  tried  to  comfort  he  wished  to  convert  ; 
but  scarcely  had  he  commenced  the  attempt  ere  the  wretched 
being  before  him  clasped  his  hands  together,  in  a strong  convul- 
sion, and  expired.  The  English  servant  who  attended  Belgrave 
informed  the  people  of  the  hotel  of  his  rank  and  fortune,  and  the 
priest  offered  to  accompany  his  remains  to  England.  He  was,  by 
the  direction  of  Adela,  who  had  not  resolution  to  see  him,  amply 
rewarded  for  his  attention ; and  in  two  days  after  their  arrival  at 
Woodhouse,  the  remains  of  Belgrave  were  consigned  to  their  kin- 
dred earth.  From  a sequestered  corner  of  the  churchyard  Howel 
witnessed  his  interment.  When  all  had  departed,  he  approached 
the  grave  of  his  daughter — *He  is  gone  !’  he  exclaimed;  ‘my 
Juliana,  your  betrayer  is  gone  ; at  the  tribunal  of  his  God  he 
now  answers  for  his  cruelty  to  you.  But,  oh  ! may  he  find  mercy 
from  that  God  ! may  he  pardon  him,  as  in  this  solemn  moment 
I have  done— my  emnity  lives  not  beyond  the  grave.’ 

Adela  now  sent  for  Howel;  and,  after  their  first  emotions  had 
subsided,  informed  him  she  meant  immediately  to  return  to  Ire- 
land. The  expectation  of  her  doing  so  had  alone  prevented  his 
going  before.  They  accordingly  commenced  their  journey  the 
ensuing  day,  and  in  less  than  a week  reached  the  dear  and  des- 
tined spot  so  interesting  to  both.  They  had  previously  settled  on 
the  manner  in  which  the  discovery  should  be  revealed  to  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  and  Adela  went  alone  into  her  cottage.  Sad  and  soli- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


519 


tary,  as  Mrs.  Marlowe  said  in  her  letter  to  Oscar,  did  Adela  find 
her  in  her  parlor ; but  it  was  a sadness  which  vanished  the  mo- 
ment she  beheld  her.  With  all  the  tenderness  of  a mother  she 
clasped  Adela  to  her  breast,  and,  in  the  sudden  transports  of 
joy  and  surprise,  for  many  minutes  did  not  notice  her  dress;  but 
when  she  did  observe  it,  what  powerful  emotions  did  it  excite  in 
her  breast ! Adela,  scarcely  less  agitated  than  she  was,  could  not 
for  many  minutes  relate  all  that  had  happened.  At  last  the  idea 
of  the  state  in  which  she  had  left  Howel  made  her  endeavor  to 
compose  herself.  Mrs.  Marlowe  wept  while  she  related  her  sufirer- 
ings;  but  when  she  mentioned  Howel,  surprise  suspended  her 
tears — a surprise  which  increased  when  she  began  the  story;  but 
when  she  came  to  that  part  where  she  herself  had  betrayed  such 
emotion  while  listening  to  Howel,  Mrs.  Marlowe  started  and  turned 
pale.  ‘ Your  feelings  are  similar  to  mine,’ said  Adela;  ‘at  this 
period  I became  agi tilted.  Yes,  ’ she  continues,  ‘ it  was  at  this  period 
I laid  my  trembling  hand  on  his,  and  exclaimed,  “ She  lives!  ” ^ 
‘ Merciful  Heaven ! ’ cried  Mrs.  Marlowe,  ‘what  do  you  mean?^ 
‘ Oh,  let  me  now,’  cried  Adela,  clasping  her  arms  round  her,  ‘ re« 
peat  to  you  the  same  expression.  He  lives ! that  husband  so  be- 
loved and  regretted,  lives!  ‘Oh,  bring  him  to  me!’  said  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  in  a faint  voice;  * let  me  behold  him  while  I have  reason 
myself  to  enjoy  the  blessing.’  Adela  flew  from  the  room. 
Howel  was  near  the  door.  He  approached,  he  entered  the  room, 
he  tottered  forward,  and  in  one  moment  was  at  the  feet  and  in  the 
arms  of  his  wife,  who,  transfixed  to  the  chair,  could  only  open  her 
arms  to  receive  him.  The  mingled  pain  and  pleasure  of  such  a 
reunion  cannot  be  described.  Both,  with  tears  of  grateful  trans- 
port, blessed  the  Power  which  had  given  such  comfort  to  their  clos- 
ing days.  ‘ But,  my  children,’  exclaimed  Mrs.  Marlowe  suddenly, 

‘ ah!  when  shall  I behold  my  children?  Why  did  not  they  ac- 
company you?  Ah ! did  they  deem  me  then  unworthy  of  bestow- 
ing a mother’s  blessing?  ’ Howel  trembled  and  turned  pale.  ‘ I 
see,’ said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  interpreting  his  emotion,  ‘I  am  a wufe, 
but  not  a mother.’  Howel,  recovering  his  fortitude,  took  her 
hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  bosom.  ‘ Yes,’  he  replied,  ‘ you  are  a 
mother ; one  dear,  one  amiable  child  remains.  Heaven  be  praised ! ’ 
He  paused,  and  a tear  fell  to  the  memory  of  Juliana.  ‘ But 
Heaven,’ he  resumed,  ‘has  taken  the  other  to  its  eternal  rest. 
Inquire  not  concerning  her  at  present,  I entreat;  soon  will  I con- 
duct you  to  the  grave;  there  will  I relate  her  fate,  and  together 
will  we  mourn  it.  Then  shall  the  tears  that  never  yet  bedewed 
her  grave,  the  precious  tears  of  a mother,  embalm  her  sacred 
dust.’  Mrs.  Marlowe  wept,  but  she  complied  with  her  husband’s 
request.  She  inquired,  in  a broken  voice,  about  her  son,  and  the 
knowledge  of  his  happiness  gradually  cheered  her  mind. 


520 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Adela  consented  to  stay  that  night  in  the  cottage ; but  the 
next  day  she  determined  on  going  to  Woodlawn.  To  think 
she  should  again  wander  through  it,  again  linger  in  the  walks 
she  had  trodden  with  those  she  loved,  gave  to  her  mind 
a melancholy  pleasure.  The  next  morning,  attended  by  her 
friend,  she  repaired  to  it,  and  was  inexpressibly  affected  by  re- 
viewing scenes  endeared  by  the  tender  remembrance  of  happier 
hours.  The  house,  from  its  closed  windows,  appeared  quite  neg- 
lected and  melancholy,  as  if  pleasure  had  forsaken  it  with  the 
poor  departed  general.  Standard,  his  favorite  horse,  grazed  on 
the  lawn ; and  beside  him,  as  if  a secret  sympathy  endeared  them 
to  each  other,  stood  the  dog  that  had  always  attended  the  general 
in  his  walks.  It  instantly  recollected  Adela,  and  running  to  her 
licked  her  hand,  and  evinced  the  utmost  joy.  She  patted  him  on 
the  head,  while  her  tears  burst  forth  at  the  idea  of  him  who  had 
been  his  master.  The  transports  of  the  old  domestics,  particularly 
of  the  gray  headed  butler,  at  her  unexpected  return,  increased  her 
tears.  But  when  she  entered  the  parlor,  in  which  her  father 
usually  sat,  she  was  quite  overcome,  and  motioning  with  her 
hand  for  her  friends  not  to  mind  her,  she  retired  to  the  garden. 
There  was  a little  romantic  root  house  at  the  termination  of  it, 
where  she  and  Oscar  had  passed  many  happy  hours  together. 
Thither  she  repaired,  and  this  idea,  thus  revived  in  her  mind,  did 
not  lessen  its  dejection.  While  she  sat  within  it  indulging 
her  sorrow,  her  eyes  caught  some  lines  inscribed  on  one  of  its 
windows.  She  hastily  arose,  and,  examining  them,  instantly 
recollected  the  hand  of  Oscar.  They  were  as  follows : 

* Adieu,  sweet  girl,  a last  adieu  I 

We  part  to  meet  no  more  ; 

Adieu  to  peace,  to  hope,  to  you, 

And  to  my  native  shore. 

* If  fortune  had  propitious  smiled, 

My  love  had  made  me  blest ; 

But  she,  like  me,  is  Sorrow’s  child. 

By  sadness  dire  opprest. 

‘ I go  to  India’s  sultry  clime, 

Oh  ! never  to  return  ; 

Beneath  some  lone  embowering  lime 
Will  be  thy  soldier’s  urn. 

* No  kindred  spirit  there  shall  weep 

Or,  pensive  musing  stray  ; 

My  image  thou  alone  wilt  keep, 

And  Grief’s  soft  tribute  pay. 

Oscar,  previous  to  his  going  to  England,  with  the  expectation 
of  being  sent  to  the  West  Indies,  had  paid  a secret  visit  to  Wood* 
lawn,  to  review  and  bid  adieu  to  every  well-known  and  beloved 
spot,  and  had  one  morning,  early  day,  inscribed  these  lines  o}.i 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


521 


a window  in  the  root-house,  prompted  by  a tender  melancholy 
he  could  not  resist. 

‘His  love  is  then  unfortunate,’ said  Adela  pensively,  leaning 
her  head  upon  her  hand.  ‘ O Oscar  ! how  sad  a similitude  is 
there  between  your  fate  and  mine ! ’ She  returned  to  the  house. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howel  (for  so  we  shall  in  future  call  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  that  name  being  only  assumed  while  her  husband  had 
a prospect  of  inheriting  his  uncle’s  fortune)  had  consented  to  stay 
some  time  with  her.  Oscar’s  lines  ran  in  her  head  the  whole 
day;  and  in  the  evening  she  again  stole  out  to  read  them. 

She  had  been  absent  some  time,  when  Mrs.  Howel  came  out  to 
her.  Adela  blushed  and  started  at  being  caught  at  the  window. 

‘ Tis  a long  time,  my  dear  Adela,’  said  Mrs.  Howel,  ‘since  we 
had  a ramble  in  this  delightful  garden  together.  Indulge  me  in 
taking  one,  and  let  us  talk  of  past  times.’  ‘Past  times,’ cried 
Adela,  with  a faint  smile,  ‘ are  not  always  the  pleasantest  to 
talk  about.’  ‘There  are  some,  at  least  one  friend,’ cried  Mrs. 
Howel,  ‘whom  you  have  not  yet  inquired  after.’  Adela’s  heart 
suddenly  palpitated  ; she  guessed  vrho  that  one  friend  was. 
‘Oscar  Fitzalan,  surely,’  continued  Mrs.  Howel,  ‘merits  an  in- 
quiry. I have  good  news  to  tell  you  of  him ; therefore,  without 
chiding  you  for  any  seeming  neglect,  I will  reveal  it.’  She  ac- 
cordingly related  his  late  reverse  of  situation.  Adela  heard  her 
with  deep  attention.  ‘Since  fortune,  then,  is  propitious  at  last,^ 
cried  she,  ‘his  love  will  no  longer  be  unfortunate.’  ‘’Tis  time, 
indeed,’  said  Mrs,  Howel,  looking  at  her  wuth  pleasure,  ‘that 
love,  so  pure,  so  constant  as  his,  should  he  rewarded.  O 
Adela!’  she  continued,  suddenly  taking  her  hand,  ‘ sweet  daughter 
of  my  care,  how  great  is  my  happiness  at  this  moment,  to  think 
of  that  about  to  be  your  portion.’  ‘My  happiness!’  exclaimed 
Adela,  in  a dejected  voice.  ‘.Yes,’  replied  Mrs.  Howel,  ‘in 
your  union  with  a man  every  way  worthy  of  possessing  you  ; a 
man  who,  from  the  first  moment  he  beheld  you,  has  never 
ceased  to  love — in  short,  with  Oscar  Fitzalan  himself.’  ‘ Impossi- 
ble ! ’ cried  Adela,  trembling  with  emotion  as  she  spoke.  ‘ Did 
not — how  humiliating  is  the  remembrance — did  not  Oscar 
Fitzalan  reject  me,  when  the  too  generous  and  romantic  spirit  of 
my  beloved  father  offered  my  hand  to  his  acceptance?’  ‘For 
once,’  said  Mrs.  Howel,  ‘I  must  disturb  the  sacred  ashes  of  the 
dead  to  prevent  the  innocent  from  being  unhappy.  O Adela  I 
you  were  cruelly  deceived  ; and  the  moment  which  gave  you  to 
Bel  grave,  rendered  Oscar  the  most  wretched  of  mankind.  My 
heart  was  the  repository  of  all  his  griefs,  and  how  many  are  the 
bitter  tears  I have  shed  over  them  ! Be  composed,’  continued 
she,  seeing  Adela’s  agitation,  ‘and  a few  moments  will  explain 
everything  to  you.  ’ She  then  led  her  back  to  the  root-house,  and  in 


522 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


a most  explicit  manner  informed  her  of  Belgrave’s  treachery. 
Adela  burst  ^into  tears  as  she  concluded.  She  wept  on  Mrs. 
Howel’s  bosom,  and  acknowledged  she  had  removed  a weight  of 
uneasiness  from  her  mind.  ‘Poor  Oscar! ’she  continued,  ‘how 
much  would  the  knowledge  of  his  misery  have  aggravated  mine  I ’ 

‘ He  acted  nobly,’  said  Mrs.  Howel,  ‘ in  concealing  it  ; and  amply 
will  he  be  rewarded  for  such  conduct.’  She  then  proceeded  to 
inform  Adela  that  she  soon  expected  a visit  from  him.  There 
was  something  in  her  look  and  manner  which  instantly  excited 
the  suspicion  of  Adela,  who,  blushing,  starting,  trembling,  ex- 
claimed : ‘ He  is  already  come  ! ’ Mrs.  Howel  smiled,  and  a tear 
fell  from  her  upon  the  soft  hand  of  Adela.  ‘ He  is  already  come,  ’ 
she  repeated,  ‘ and  he  waits,  oh  ! how  impatiently,  to  behold 
his  Adela.’ 

We  may  believe  his  patience  was  not  put  to  a much  longer 
test.  But  when  Adela  in  reality  beheld  him  as  she  entered  the 
parlor  where  she  had  left  Mr.  Howel,  and  where  he  waited  for 
the  reappearance  of  her  friend,  she  sunk  beneath  her  emotion, 
upon  that  faithful  bosom  which  had  so  long  suffered  the  most 
excruciating  pangs  on  her  account;  and  it  was  many  minutes 
ere  she  was  sensible  of  the  soft  voice  of  Oscar.  Oh,  who  shall 
paint  his  transports,  after  all  his  sufferings,  to  be  thus  rewarded ! 
But  in  the  midst  of  his  happiness,  the  idea  of  the  poor  general, 
who  had  so  generously  planned  it,  struck  upon  his  heart  with  a 
pang  of  sorrow.  ‘ Oh,  my  Adela!  ’ he  cried,  clasping  her  to  his 
heart,  as  if  doublj^  endeared  b}^  the  remembrance,  ‘ is  Oscar  at 
last  permitted  to  pour  forth  the  fullness  of  his  soul  before  you,  to 
reveal  its  tenderness,  to  indulge  the  hope  of  calling  you  his — a 
hope  which  affords  the  delightful  prospect  of  being  able  to  con- 
tribute to  your  felicity?  Yes,  most  generous  of  friends!  ’ he  ex- 
claimed, raising  his  eyes  to  a picture  of  the  general,  ‘I  will  en- 
deavor to  evince  my  gratitude  to  you  by  my  conduct  to  your 
child.’  Oh,  how  did  the  tear  he  shed  to  the  memory  of  her 
father  interest  the  heart  of  Adela!  her  own  fell  with  it,  and  she 
felt  that  the  presence  of  that  being  to  whom  they  were  conse- 
crated was  alone  wanting  to  complete  their  happiness.  It  was 
long  ere  she  was  sufficiently  composed  to  inquire  the  reason  of 
Oscar’s  sudden  appearance,  and  still  longer  ere  he  could  inform 
her.  Mrs.  Marlowe’s  melancholy  letter,  he  at  last  said,  had 
brought  him  over,  with  the  hope  of  being  able  to  cheer  her  soli- 
tude, and  also,  he  acknowledged,  his  own  dejection,  by  mutual 
sympathy;  from  her  cottage  he  had  been  directed  to  Woodlawn, 
and  at  Woodlawn  received  particulars,  not  only  of  her  happiness, 
but  his  own.  Adela,  who  had  never  yet  deviated  from  propriety, 
would  not  now  infringe  it,  and  resolutely  determined,  till  the 
expiration  of  her  mourning,  not  to  bestow  her  hand  on  Oscar; 
but  permitted  him  to  hope,  that  in  the  intervening  space  most 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


523 


of  his  time  mig*ht  be  devoted  to  her.  It  was  necessary,  however, 
to  sanction  that  hope  by  having  proper  society.  She  could  not 
flatter  herself  with  much  longer  retaining  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howel, 
as  the  latter  particularly  was  impatient  to  behold  her  son.  Oscar 
therefore  requested,  and  obtained  permission  from  Adela,  to 
write  in  her  name  to  Lord  and  Lady  Cherbury,  and  entreat  their 
company  at  Woodlawn,  promising  she  would  then  accompany 
them  to  Castle  Carberry,  and  from  thence  to  Dunreath  Abbey,  a 
tour  which,  previous  to  Oscar’s  leaving  Wales,  had  been  agreed 
on.  The  invitation  was  accepted,  and  in  a few  days  Oscar  beheld 
the  two  beings  most  valued  by  him  in  the  world  introduced  to 
each  other.  Tears  of  rapture  started  to  his  eyes,  as  he  saw  his 
Adela  folded  to  the  bosom  of  his  lovely  sister,  who  called  her 
the  sweet  restorer  of  her  brother’s  happiness!  Lord  Cherbury 
was  already  acquainted  with  her,  and,  next  to  his  Amanda,  con- 
sidered her  the  loveliest  of  human  beings,  and  Lady  Martha  and 
Lady  Araminta,  who  were  also  invited  to  Woodlawn,  regarded 
her  in  the  same  light.  A few  days  after  their  arrival  Mrs.  Howel 
prepared  for  her  departure.  Adela,  who  considered  her  as  a 
second  mother,  could  not  behold  those  preparations  without  tears 
of  real  regret.  ‘ Oh,  my  Adela  1 ’ she  exclaimed,  ‘ these  tears 
flatter,  yet  distress  me.  I am  pleased  to  think  the  child  of  my 
care  regards  me  with  such  affection,  but  I am  hurt  to  think  she 
should  consider  my  loss  such  an  affliction.  Oh,  my  child!  may 
the  endearments  of  the  friends  who  surround  you  steal  from 
you  all  painful  remembrances  ! nature  calls  me  from  you ; I 
sigh  to  behold  my  child;  I sigh,’  she  continued,  with  eyes  suf- 
fused in  tears,  ‘ to  behold  the  precious  earth  which  holds  another.^ 
About  three  weeks  after  her  departure  the  whole  party  pro- 
ceeded to  Castle  Carberry.  Amanda  could  not  re-enter  it  with- 
out emotions  of  the  most  painful  nature.  She  recollected  the 
moment  in  which  she  had  quitted  it,  oppressed  with  sorrow  and 
sickness,  and  to  attend  the  closing  period  of  a father’s  life.  She 
wept,  sighed  to  think,  that  the  happiness  he  had  prayed  for  he 
could  not  behold.  Lord  Cherbury  saw  her  emotions  and  soothed 
them  with  the  softest  tenderness;  it  was  due  to  that  tenderness 
to  conquer  her  dejection,  and  in  future  the  remembrance  of  her 
father  was  only  attended  with  a pleasing  melancholy.  She  did 
not  delay  visiting  the  convent.  The  good-natured  nuns  crowded 
around  her,  and  cried,  laughed,  and  wished  her  joy,  almost  in 
the  same  moment:  particularly  Sister  Mary.  The  prioress’s 
pleasure  was  of  a less  violent,  but  more  affecting  nature.  An 
almost  constant  scene  of  gayety  was  kept  up  at  the  Castle,  a 
gayety,  however,  which  did  not  prevent  Lord  and  Lady  Cher- 
bury from  inspecting  into  the  situation  of  their  poor  tenants, 
whose  wants  they  relieved,  whose  grievances  they  redressed,  and 
whose  hearts  they  cheered,  by  a promise  of  spending  some 


524 


THE  CIIILHEEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


montlis  in  every  year  at  the  Castle.  After  continuing  at  it  six 
weeks,  they  crossed  over  to  Port-Patrick,  and  from  thence  pro- 
ceeded to  Dunreath  Abbey,  which  had  been  completely  repaired 
and  furnished  in  a style  equally  modern  and  elegant ; and  here 
it  was  determined  they  should  remain  till  the  solemnization  of 
Lord  Dunreath’s  nuptials.  The  time  which  intervened  till  the 
period  appointed  for  them  was  agreeably  diversified  by  parties 
among  the  neighboring  families,  and  excursions  about  the  coun- 
try ; but  no  hours  were  happier  than  those  which  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Abbey  passed  when  free  from  company,  so  truly  were  they 
united  to  each  other  by  affection.  Lord  Dunreath,  soon  after  his 
return,  waited  upon  the  Marquis  of  Roslin,  and,  by  his  sister’s 
desire,  signified  to  him  that  if  a visit  from  her  would  be  agreeable 
to  the  marquis  she  would  pay  it.  This,  however,  was  declined ; 
and  about  the  same  period  Lady  Dunreath  died.  Mrs.  Bruce, 
whom  from  long  habit  she  was  attached  to,  then  retired  to 
another  part  of  Scotland,  ashamed  to  remain  where  her  con- 
duct was  known — a conduct  which  deeply  affected  her  niece, 
whom  Amanda  visited  immediately  after  her  arrival,  and  found 
settled  in  a neat  house  near  the  town  she  had  lodged  in.  She 
received  Lady  Cherbury  with  every  demonstration  of  real  pleas- 
ure, and  both  she  and  her  little  girls  spent  some  time  with  her  at 
the  Abbey. 

The  happy  period  for  completing  the  felicity  of  Oscar  at  last 
arrived.  In  the  chapel  where  his  parents  were  united,  he  received 
from  the  hand  of  Lord  Cherbury  the  lovely  object  of  his  long- 
tried  affections.  The  ceremony  was  only  witnessed  by  his  own 
particular  friends  ; but  at  dinner  all  the  neighboring  families  were 
assembled,  and  the  tenants  were  entertained  in  the  great  hall, 
where  dancing  commenced  at  an  early  and  was  continued  till  a 
late  hour. 

And  now  having  (to  use  the  words  of  Adam)  brought  our  story 
to  the  sum  of  earthly  bliss,  we  shall  conclude,  first  giving  a brief 
account  of  the  characters  connected  with  it. 

\ Lady  Greystock,  as  one  of  the  most  distinguished,  we  shall  first 
mention.  After  the  death  of  Lady  Euphrasia,  she  found  her  com- 
pany no  longer  desired  at  the  marquis’s,  and  accordingly  repaired 
to  Bath.  Here  she  had  not  been  long  ere  she  became  acquainted 
with  a set  of  female  Puritans,  who  soon  wrought  a total  change 
(I  will  not  say  a reformation)  in  her  ladyship’s  sentiments  ; and 
to  give  a convincing  proof  of  this  change,  she  was  prevailed  on  to 
give  her  hand  to  one  of  their  spruce  young  preachers,  who  shortly 
taught  her,  what  indeed  she  had  long  wanted  to  learn,  the  doc- 
trine of  repentance  ; for  most  sincerely  did  she  repent  putting  her- 
self into  his  power.  Vexation,  disappointment,  and  grief,  brought 
on  a lingering  illness,  from  which  she  never  recovered.  When 
convinced  she  was  dying,  she  sent  for  Rushbrook,  and  made  a 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


525 


full  confession  of  her  treachery  and  injustice  to  him,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  he  took  immediate  possession  of  his  uncle’s  for- 
tune ; and  thus,  in  the  evening  of  his  life,  enjoyed  a full  recom- 
pense for  the  trials  of  its  early  period.  Lady  Greystock  died  with 
some  degree  of  satisfaction  at  the  idea  of  disappointing  her  hus- 
band of  the  fortune  she  was  convinced  he  had  married  her  for. 

Mrs.  Howel,  after  visiting  her  son,  retired  to  her  husband’s  cot- 
tage, where  their  days  glide  on  in  a kind  of  pleasing  melancholy. 
The  happiness  of  that  son,  and  his  Emily,  is  as  perfect  as  happi- 
ness can  be  in  this  sublunary  state. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley,  after  studiously  avoiding  Lord  and  Lady 
Cherbury  for  above  two  years,  at  last,  by  chance,  was  thrown  in 
their  way,  and  then  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  he  was  not  so  agh 
tated  by  the  sight  of  Amanda  as  he  had  dreaded.  He  did  not  re- 
fuse the  invitations  of  Lord  Cherbury.  The  domestic  happiness 
he  saw  him  enjoying  rendered  his  own  unconnected  and  wander- 
ing life  more  unpleasant  than  ever  to  him.  Lady  Araminta  Dor- 
mer was  almost  constantly  in  his  company.  No  longer  fascinated 
by  Amanda,  he  could  now  see  and  admire  her  perfections.  He 
soon  made  known  his  admiration.  The  declaration  was  not  un- 
graciously received,  and  he  offered  his  hand,  and  was  accepted — 
an  acceptance  which  put  him  in  possession  of  happiness  fully 
equal  to  Lord  Cherbury ’s. 

The  Marquis  and  Marchioness  of  Roslin  pass  their  days  in 
gloomy  retirement,  regretful  of  the  past  and  hopeless  of  the  future* 
Freelove  flutters  about  every  public  place,  boasts  of  having  car- 
ried off  a Scotch  heiress,  and  thinks,  from  that  circumstance,  he 
may  now  lay  siege  to  any  female  heart  with  a certainty  of  being 
successful. 

To  return  once  more  to  the  sweet  descendants  of  the  Dunreath 
family.  The  goodness  of  heart,  the  simplicity  of  manners  which 
ever  distinguished  them,  they  still  retain.  From  having  been 
children  of  sorrow  themselves,  they  feel  for  all  who  come  under 
that  denomination,  and  their  charity  is  at  once  bestowed  as  a 
tribute  from  gratitude  to  Heaven,  and  from  humanity  to  want  ; 
from  gratitude  to  that  Being  who  watched  their  unsheltered  youth, 
who  guarded  them  through  innumerable  perils,  who  placed  them 
on  the  summit  of  prosperity,  from  whence,  by  dispensing  his  gifts 
around,  they  trust  to  be  translated  to  a still  greater  height  of  happi- 
ness. Lady  Dunreath’s  wish  is  fulfilled.  To  use  her  words,  their 
past  sorrows  are  only  remembered  to  teach  them  pity  for  the  woes 
of  others.  Their  virtues  have  added  to  the  renown  of  their  ances- 
tors, and  entailed  peace  upon  their  own  souls.  Their  children,  by 
all  connected  with  them,  are  considered  as  blessings.  Gratitude 
has  already  consecrated  their  names,  and  their  example  inspires 
others  with  emulation  to  pursue  their  courses. 


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